Johnson licked his lips. 'It is about the election that I wish to speak, sir.'
Haggard leaned back. 'Well, go ahead.' 'May I first of all ask some questions, sir?' 'Anything you like.'
'Well, sir, is it true that all of the black servants you have here are slaves?'
Haggard frowned at him. They are slaves, Mr. Johnson, if it is any concern of yours.' His frown deepened. 'You disapprove of slavery?'
Johnson's face was slowly turning crimson with embarrassment. 'Every right-thinking man must disapprove of slavery, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard allowed his finger to point. 'Are you accusing me, Mr. Johnson, of being a wrong-thinking man?'
'By no means, Mr. Haggard.' Johnson forgot his earlier resolution and sat down, ‘I understand your background, sir. You were born to a certain station in life, and the higher that station, the less likely are we to question the perquisites that accompany it. I would hope, sir, that when the facts are put to you, you would appreciate them, and be swayed by them.'
The facts?' Haggard sat up. 'Don't come to me with any balderdash, Johnson.' The anger was back, bubbling in his belly, quite dispelling his mood of contentment. Why, it seemed that this entire country was engaged in a vast conspiracy against him. 'I'll give you some facts. Have you ever seen happier or healthier people than my blacks?'
'No, sir. But . . .'
'Do you know the sort of existence their forefathers had in Africa? A continual round of murder and mayhem, an unending sequence of disease, a total absence of literature of any refinement, and I may add, the worship of the most vicious and heathen gods you may care to name. Compare that existence with the lives they now live.'
'Yet are they subject to the whim of a single man, sir.'
'Do you not suppose they were subject to the whim of their king, in Guinea?'
Johnson sighed, and stood up again. 'Mr. Haggard, if indeed your ancestors removed these people from Africa in order to elevate their standard of living, they are to be honoured. But, sir, they did not apparently consider the matter in its entirety. To take a man from one bondage, and clap him in another, is hardly Christian, even if the second bondage is less severe than the first. And I may say, sir, that on the evidence presented before the'
Royal Commission, in many cases this second bondage is far more severe than the first. Of course I excuse you from such a stricture, Mr. Haggard. Every report says that you have ever been a humane man. Yet, sir, are you but one amongst hundreds, perhaps thousands. And in addition, sir, I am bound to say, that by belonging to such a community you place yourself in the dock of human opinion along with them.'
Haggard scratched his head. 'I really am totally confounded, Mr. Johnson. But I will tell you this: I do not propose to be lectured in my own house and by my own schoolmaster. You have said your piece, and I am perfectly willing to allow you your own point of view. But I regard the matter as now closed.'
'That decision must be yours, Mr. Haggard. But I will not be silenced,' Johnson said.
'In the name of God, man, have you come here to quarrel with me?'
Johnson's flush, which had faded during his lecture, now began to gather again. 'No, sir, and I apologise for my heat. I came here, sir, to make certain inquiries, resulting from rumours I have heard and information I have received. I now feel it is only proper for me to tell you that I have decided to stand as parliamentary candidate for Derleth.'
Haggard stared at him for a moment in total bewilderment. Then he laughed. 'You must have lost your senses.' Johnson got up.
Haggard kept his temper with an effort. 'And the deposit?' That has been made available.'
'Sharp, by God.' Haggard got up. 'Granville Sharp. He seeks to bring me down. Well, we shall see about that. Do you seriously suppose the electors of this borough will vote for their schoolmaster instead of their squire?'
'We shall have to find out, sir. But they are Englishmen, Mr. Haggard. And to any right-thinking Englishman, slavery is an abhorrence. I will bid you good day.'
MacGuinness panted, rolled his tricorne between his hands. ' Tis a meeting. Hard by the church.'
Haggard nodded. 'You've some lads?'
'Oh, aye. Ten of them. But costly, Mr. Haggard. A guinea apiece.'
'Well, hopefully it won't come to violence.' He put on his hat, fastened his coat. Emma stood in the doorway to watch him, Roger at her side. 'You'd not assault the schoolmaster, Mr. Haggard?
‘I'd not assault anyone, sweetheart. But I cannot have my people suborned.' He looked up at the ten mounted men. 'Peter Wring, is that you?'
‘It is me, Mr. Haggard, sir. And I've Toby with me as well.'
'Good man. And Lacey?'
The men exchanged glances. 'Well, sir. no. Lacey wouldn't join us.'
Haggard mounted. Because of his sister, he wondered?
'Will you take the dog, Mr. John?' John Essex asked.
Haggard pulled the mastiffs ears. But he was only a pup. 'I don't think we'll need him.'
'Please let me come, Father,' Roger begged. 'If there's to be a fight, I can swing a stick as well as anyone.'
'Your business is to look after Emma,' Haggard said. 'Anyway, there isn't going to be a fight. We're going to attend a meeting, that's all. Weil be back by ten o'clock.' He turned his horse and rode into the darkness, followed by his men.
Emma looked down at the boy who stood beside her, put her arm round his shoulder and gave him a squeeze; Rufus rubbed against his leg—he had immediately adopted Roger as his master. 'Time enough, Roger.'
He made no reply, and after a moment she released him. He was a strange boy. She was the only mother he had ever known, and she believed he was genuinely fond of her. Certainly no one, watching him play with Charlie and Alice, could doubt that he loved them. But equally no one could doubt that he worshipped John Haggard, wanted only to be included in his father's plans and ambitions.
'Does he really go to assault Mr. Johnson?' Roger asked.
'Of course not. It is just his way. And Mr. Johnson is really being very wrong in bringing discord to Derleth. His business is teaching, not quarelling with his squire.'
Roger went into the house, and Emma closed the door, is what he said true, Emma? Is it wrong to have slaves?'
Emma sighed. 'Some people say it is wrong to drink strong liquors, or eat rich foods. Some people say it is wrong to be ambitious, and certainly wrong to be rich. When you are a man, you will have to decide for yourself, what is right and what is wrong.'
He gave her a curious glance. 'Emma? Is it true that Papa owns you too?'
At last, she thought. For how many years had she waited for that simple question to be asked. 'Your father and I are lovers,' she said.
'But did he buy you?' Roger persisted.
Emma put her arm back around his shoulders as they climbed the stairs. 'Why, yes, he did. He saved me from being hanged, because of a lot of superstitious men. I will tell you about it, some day.'
'And he owns you?' Roger asked.
'Not any more.' She smiled. 'I doubt he knows.'
'And yet you stay with him?'
She gave him a squeeze. 'I told you, I love him. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be here for the rest of his life.'
'For the rest of my life, Emma. I don't want you ever to go.'
She rubbed his head. 'For that kind thought, you can sit at the table with me for supper.'
'But Emma, is Papa a good man? Do you think he is a good man?'
'He's a good enough man for me, Roger Haggard,' she said. 'Now off you go and wash your hands.'
Haggard drew rein in the shelter of the willows which grew around the little cemetery. By the side of the schoolhouse a platform had been erected, and on it there stood the Reverend Litteridge. Litteridge, Haggard thought bitterly. He might have known he would be involved. Seated to either side of him were half a dozen other men, none of whom Haggard recognised, save for the schoolmaster and the very obvious slight figure of Granville Sharp himself. In front of the rostru
m, breaths clouding into the still November air, were a considerable number of men, and some women; Haggard estimated that most of the village must have turned out to hear what their vicar had to say, as they turned out most Sunday mornings for the same purpose.
He dismounted, handed his reins to Peter Wring, and made his way through the trees and into earshot.
'A blight,' Litteridge was saying. 'A blight across our fair land, and more especially, our fair village. Now, my friends, Mr. Haggard is not a bad man. Indeed, there is sufficient evidence that he is a good and generous one, according to his lights. But are his lights in accord with our way of thinking? We have this man, born and bred a planter, and therefore, my friends, by definition belonging to the most stiff-necked and arrogant group of men in the world. And do not his actions indicate his attitude? He wishes to return to England, to enjoy the proceeds of his slave-created wealth. So he commands his agent to buy Derleth Hall. No matter that the Redmonds have lived here for four generations. They were not slave owners. Thus they were not wealthy people. There were debts. As we all have debts. So Mr. Haggard's agent buys up the mortgage, and forecloses. There is an end to the Redmonds. And what do we next see? Mr. Haggard takes up residence, with his entourage, of slaves, black and white, my friends. For living in the hall is a woman who was convicted as a thief, and deported from this area across the seas, where she could suffer her sentence in justice. But she was a pretty girl, so Mr. Haggard with another snap of his arrogant fingers, buys her and takes her to his bed, and now brings her back to Derleth as lady of the manor. Can you believe that, my friends? A convicted thief, sentenced to transportation, returned to us as our better. Is this the sort of man you would have represent you in Parliament, my friends, make the laws that will govern this country, stand on our behalf in matters of national import? But I have not yet finished. This man, this Haggard, is also a slave owner, as I have said. And when one of his people, unable any longer to bear the heavy burden of bondage, sought succour away from Derleth, what does Haggard do? He calls for a posse, saddles up, and rides in pursuit, for all the world as if James Middlesex had been a convicted criminal, like his own paramour. A man whose only crime, if it can possibly be a crime, was to seek his freedom, an act any one of you would be honoured for attempting should you ever find yourself in so iniquitous a position. Is this man you would choose to represent you?'
The parson paused, straightened, listened to the murmurs of agreement which came from in front of him. Haggard left the trees and walked towards the platform. For a moment he did not appear to be noticed, then heads began to turn and a muttering began.
'You'll excuse me, Mr. Litteridge,' Haggard said. 'But you'll not refuse a man the right to speak for himself?'
Litteridge blinked at him. Even in the darkness he seemed to turn pale.
'Do you give others that right, Mr. Haggard?' he demanded.
'I've never stopped a man airing his opinions yet,' Haggard said, and mounted the steps to the platform. 'Well, now,' he said, raising his voice. 'Do I have the right to speak?'
'Nah,' someone shouted. 'Tis the parson's platform.'
'Be gone wi' you,' bawled someone else, apparently addressing the last speaker. ' Tis squire's right.'
'Aye,' said someone else. 'Let the squire speak.'
Haggard grinned at them, the widening of his mouth hiding the surging anger in his belly. 'My right,' he said. My right, he thought, to have to wait on the whim of a bunch of stinking coal miners. 'Well then, listen to me,' he said, speaking loudly and clearly, but not shouting. ' Tis true I am a slave owner. And there is the sole reason these men have elected to oppose my taking a seat in the Commons. A slave owner. They have filled your heads with notions about my brutality, about the iniquity of the trade, about the degradation of being a slave. You know my people at the Hall. Are they starving? Are they naked? Answer me that, my friends. Those are slaves. My slaves. Haggard slaves.'
'One ran away from you,' a voice said.
'Aye, so he did,' Haggard said. 'As the prodigal son ran away.' There was a roar of approval.
Haggard raised his hands. 'You want to be represented in Parliament. You want the best for this great country of ours just as you want the best for this village. Now let me ask you this. Who is better qualified to achieve that best, a schoolmaster, or your very own squire? Now Parson Litteridge has just accused me of every vice he can think of. But I accuse him of the greatest vice of all. The vice of being uncharitable. For what is another of the charges he has brought against me? That I keep, as my mistress, a girl from this very village, convicted of theft. Let me tell you about Emma Dearborn, my friends. She was transported, as the vicar says, sold into bondage for ten years. Had I not purchased her, someone else would have done so, and used her hardly, I can promise you that. But in addition, falsely accused of a crime on board the vessel in which she was imprisoned, she would have been sentenced to hang. I could not permit that, my friends. I bought her. And having done that, I fell in love with her. She is a beautiful girl. So I love her. Have none of you fellows ever fallen in love with a beautiful girl?'
There was a bellow of laughter and a chorus of ayes.
'But you ain't married her,' shouted someone from the back.
'No, I have not married her,' Haggard said. 'I have no intention of ever marrying again. I am a widower, and will remain so. And I'd expect every man to respect that decision.'
Another chorus of ayes. But the voice at the back, a vaguely familiar voice, was not to be silenced.
'Fine words, Mr. Haggard. You ain't marrying again because you can't keep your hands off nothing in skirts. That's why he wants us to send him to Westminster, lads. So he can fuck every wench in London.'
Haggard peered into the darkness, could only make out a blur of faces. 'You'll come forward, sir,' he said. 'And repeat those words.'
'Who'll make me?' demanded the voice.
'Why, I will,' Haggard said, and stepped down from the platform. His heart pounded and he could feel the blood surging through his veins, but he was quite cool. He had not fought anyone for too long. Perhaps there was all of his trouble, the sole cause of his uncertainty. And this would be as vital a conflict as that in which he had opposed Malcolm Bolton. This crowd was not altogether against him, but they were not altogether for him, either. Now they parted willingly enough to let him through, while there was a brief scuffle at the rear, and someone shouted, 'Stand up to him, Jemmy, if you're so loud with your voice. He can't hang you for speaking.'
Haggard reached the back of the throng. Jemmy Lacey. He might have known it. He wondered if Margaret was also here. 'Well, Lacey,' he said. 'What do you have to say to me?'
The young man licked his lips, but he was realising that he was surrounded by his friends, not the squire's, and that he was at least as big a man. ‘I said you was a lying lecher, Mr. Haggard. I'll not go back on that.'
'Then back yourself with your fists,' Haggard said, and hit him on the face, not hard, but just sufficient to sting.
Lacey gazed at him in astonishment for some seconds, then gave a grunt, lowered his head, and ran forward. Haggard clasped both hands together to use as a club on the nape of the young man's neck as he came up, but although Lacey gave another grunt he was not stopped. His arms went round Haggard's waist as his head crunched into Haggard's stomach with breathtaking force. The impact carried Haggard back, and he tripped and sat down, Lacey landing on top of him.
'Go it, Jemmy boy,' someone shouted.
'Lay into him,' shouted another.
Haggard struck down again, aware that he had only a few seconds of breath left, as Lacey continued to burrow into his stomach. Again and again he hit the young man, and at last there was a slight slackening of the grip. He rolled to his left, and Lacey went with him. this time underneath. Haggard managed to get a knee up, and the young man grunted and released him. They reached their knees together, Lacey once again grasping at him. but Haggard evaded the clutching hands and gained his feet. Certainly
he could not afford again to find himself in that bearhug. He watched Lacey rising, and moved forward, balancing himself, leading a left hand which crunched on Lacey's chin and left a stain of blood, from his own torn fingers, Haggard realised. But now was no time to worry about that. While Lacey was off balance he threw his right fist with all his weight behind it. The blow caught the other side of Lacey's chin with a jar which travelled right up Haggard's arm into his shoulder, left his right hand for a moment numb with pain. But Lacey was staggering. Haggard moved forward, hit the young man three times in the stomach, sinking the blows with all his force into the heavy coat. Then he switched back to the face, hurling three more blows, splitting Lacey's cheek and landing another in his eye. The young man gasped, and fell to his knees.
Equally breathless. Haggard waited, each fist a mass of seething pain, heart throbbing, and head too, listening to the silence around him, 'Up, Jemmy,' he said. 'Up.'
Lacey remained on his knees, spitting blood. Haggard turned away, walked towards the trees; MacGuinness waited with his horse.
There cheers for the squire,' someone called. 'Who'll give three cheers for the squire? Hip hip . . .' There was a surprisingly loud response.
'Fighting,' Emma said. 'Brawling, and with a man as far beneath you as the mud beneath your feet. Your clothes are ruined, and your hands . . .' She was extending them as she spoke, over a bowl of warm water held by Annie Kent, while Elizabeth Lancashire and Amelia hovered, armed with cotton wool and lint. 'Are they very painful?'
They ache,' Haggard said, removing one from her grasp to take a drink of mulled wine. 'What do you reckon, MacGuinness?'
'You did well, Mr. Haggard. Well. There's not a man in the village won't respect you now.'
'You have to fight people to gain their respect?' Emma demanded, opening the remains of Haggard's shirt. 'My God.'
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