by Giles Milton
10
ESCAPE OR DEATH
ON 1 DECEMBER 1721, an exciting rumor began to circulate through the streets and markets of London. A ship had been sighted, sailing up the Thames Estuary—the flagship of Commodore Charles Stewart—and it had on board hundreds of gaunt and emaciated men.
It did not take long for the prattlers of Grub Street to conclude that these must be the English slaves recently freed from Morocco. The Daily News was the first to print the scoop. One of their reporters was sent downstream to verify the facts and returned with confirmation that the vessel did indeed belong to Commodore Stewart. He added that the captives “are to land on Monday next … and will the same day proceed in a body from the waterside through the city.”
The city authorities had already been alerted to their arrival and were planning a carefully choreographed celebration. There was to be a solemn church service, followed by a colorful pageant through the streets of the capital. The day set aside for the festivities was Monday, 4 December, and they were planned to continue for much of the morning. In the event, they lasted a great deal longer.
Commodore Stewart did his best to prepare the men for a homecoming that looked set to be noisy, crowded and quite possibly overwhelming. The returning slaves were instructed not to shave or wash, and to remain in the filthy djellabas they had worn since leaving Meknes: Stewart wanted them to look as miserable and downtrodden as possible. The return of the slaves provided an excellent opportunity for the king and his ministers to highlight their role—albeit minimal—in securing their release. The more abject and wretched the slaves, the more the citizens of London would have cause to congratulate their ruler.
It is impossible to know the men’s feelings as they sailed past the flooded fields and marshes of the Thames Estuary. Most were illiterate and the few who could write were emotionally ill-equipped to record their sense of excitement or anxiety. They were certainly desperate to return to their families, yet must have felt apprehensive—and perhaps frightened—at the prospect. Few had any idea whether their wives and children were still alive, or of how their homecoming, sickly and destitute, would be greeted. The men were also unaware that their release from captivity had become a cause célèbre in England and that a vast crowd was awaiting their arrival.
The sharp change in weather was the first sign that they were nearing home. The searing heat of Meknes had slowly given way to the piercing chill of the North Sea, and cobalt skies had been replaced by lead-grey clouds. Now, as they approached London, a biting wind sent the men shivering below decks. Commodore Stewart’s vessel edged slowly through the mud-ochre waters of the Thames Estuary, mooring below London Bridge on the morning of 4 December.
London’s authorities had planned for the men to be taken directly to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where a solemn thanksgiving service was to be held in their honor. But the throng of riverside spectators was so thick that it was decided to lead them on a long tour of the capital’s streets and alleys, in order that they could be viewed by as many people as possible. Their route was to plunge them into some of London’s most colorful quarters, where both physicians and quacks jostled for trade alongside booksellers, grocers and mountebanks.
The newspapers of the day provide a remarkable snapshot of unfolding events as the men were paraded through the city. In Fetter Lane, surgeon John Douglas was in the midst of a public operation in which he was demonstrating and explaining “the new method of cutting the stone.” Using only a small knife and a large pair of tweezers on his patient, he claimed his technique to be “the safest and most certain way of operating.” In nearby Abchurch Lane, the apothecary J. Moore was proudly displaying “a very broad worm, three yards and a quarter long,” which had emerged from the backside of a bricklayer’s wife. She had been “a long time violently bad with faintings, gripes and flushings,” ignorant of what was causing her to feel so ill. Moore’s black worm powder soon provided the answer. She consumed a few spoonfuls and the offending parasite was immediately expelled.
As the men approached the crowds of Cannon Street, they could see a certain Richard Hayes perched on a podium and expounding on a new method of learning writing and arithmetic. Others were giving instruction in “the Italian and French tongues.” In Red Lyon Fields there was an auction of the worldly belongings of “the decease’d Sergeant Hae”—including some fine chinaware—while in St Clement’s Coffee House there was an impressive sale of antiquarian books. None of these diversions could compete with the spectacle of 293 sick and wretched slaves being paraded through the capital “in their Moorish habits.” The crowds pressed forward in their desire to see these bewildered men, who found it increasingly difficult to push their way toward the distant edifice of St. Paul’s.
Sir Christopher Wren’s cathedral was the greatest monument in the capital. The construction work had finished just eleven years earlier, and its white stone sparkled in the pale winter sunlight. With its architectural symmetry and baroque dome, St. Paul’s was a world away from the rambling mosques and palaces of Meknes. The freed captives were shuffled into the gloom of the great church, which was thronged with city burghers and merchants who had gathered to gawk at the men and join in the thanksgiving for their release. Many of the slaves had spent their time in captivity lamenting the fact that they were forbidden to worship together. Now, they had the dubious pleasure of a long, slow and interminably dull service that would last for much of the morning.
It had been coordinated by the Reverend William Berryman, chaplain to the Bishop of London, who could not resist the temptation to deliver an excruciating sermon on the subject of captivity. “The happy occasion of our present meeting,” he began, “[is] to congratulate you, my brethren, upon your return from slavery under the yoke of infidels.” Berryman conceded that the former captives would undoubtedly wish to enjoy “the liberty of your native country.” But he issued them with a stern warning of “the duties from hence incumbent upon you.” Many of these were religious, and Berryman provided the men with plentiful examples from both the Old and New Testaments.
Finally, after a sermon that must have taken at least an hour to deliver, Berryman reminded the men of the enlightened government to which they were returning. With a smile, he informed them that they were “restored to the enjoyment of English air and English liberty, free from the despotick rule of your imperious lords.”
The freed slaves must have hoped that the service at St. Paul’s would mark the end of the day’s proceedings. Many originated from the West Country and were anxious to head back to the docks in order to search for a vessel bound for Devon or Cornwall. But it quickly became apparent that the celebrations were by no means over. During the course of the church service, huge crowds had assembled outside the cathedral, hoping to catch a glimpse of the redeemed slaves. Furthermore, King George I himself had expressed a desire to meet the men. According to the Daily Post, the men were instructed to make their way to St. James’s Palace, “to return thanks to his majesty for interposing in their behalf.” But they soon found their paths blocked. “By reason of the great multitudes of people that crowded to see them, they were forc’d to divide themselves into several companies and to take different ways hither.” The men were only reunited as a group when they at long last reached the palace.
The king’s residence—which only a handful of the men had ever seen—was on a very different scale to the imperial palace of Meknes. It boasted few exterior adornments and its facade was old and crumbling. “Tho the receptacle of all the pomp and glory of Great Britain,” wrote Daniel Defoe, “[it] is really mean.” Nor could the court match the extraordinary panoply of viziers and eunuchs who constantly attended on Moulay Ismail. A retiring individual, King George I shunned the pageantry of formal state occasions. Whenever he traveled, he took circuitous routes so as to avoid “much embarrassment and a great crowd of people.” On one occasion, he told his courtiers to ensure “that there be as little concourse of noisy attendants at his landing, or on the
road to London, as possible.”
Such public reticence made his appearance before the slaves a cause for surprise. He emerged from the presence chamber, where most courtly business was conducted, and walked down to his beloved garden. When he had made himself comfortable and was ready to see them, the ex-captives were led into the grounds of the palace. “Upon their arrival [at St. James‘s], they were let into the garden behind the palace, where His Majesty and their Royal Highnesses view’d them.” King George I rarely spoke English in public—he was much more confident in French—which may explain why he declined to address the men. But he seemed genuinely moved by their wretchedness and poverty, “[and] order’d £500 for their relief.” Other members of his household followed suit, donating an additional £200 to the fund. The collection from St. Paul’s—which amounted to £100-was also given to the men. “’Tis believed that a much greater sum would have been gather’d if many charitable gentlemen and citizens could have found access through the prodigious crowd,” lamented the Daily Post. “However, it is still hoped that such well disposed persons will send in their respectable contributions.”
Over the next few days, the freed slaves were much in evidence in the capital, and colorful stories of their slavery began to appear in the newspapers. So, too, did accounts of Commodore Stewart’s rescue mission. One tale, not mentioned elsewhere, suggests that at least one of the released slaves had not made it back to England. “It’s reported among the British captives lately redeemed,” reads the London Journal, “that on the day of their departure from the region of their slavery, an English captive, with a Moor, were nailed thro’ the head, for having committed a murder.”
The publicity that surrounded the men’s return—and the accounts of their captivity—enabled them to raise funds with ease. In addition to the king’s gift and the money collected at St. Paul’s, the East India Company “bestowed a donation of 150 guineas on the redeemed British captives.” The bishop of London also gave them money, as did several of the capital’s noblemen, and it was not long before the total sum raised amounted to £1,400. “They have been able to cloath themselves in the dress of their native country,” recorded the London Journal some four weeks after their return, “and most of them are now employed in the king’s or the merchants’ service.” It added that several of the captains “have the command of merchant’s ships given them again, in recompense of their great sufferings during their captivity.”
Within a few weeks of their return to England, all of the former slaves had disappeared from the public gaze. The colonial American captives headed to the docks in order to seek a passage back across the Atlantic. Whether or not they made it home remains a mystery. Some of the Englishmen decided to chance their luck on the high seas. Others returned to their families and loved ones. After six years of captivity, and a burst of publicity on their return, all of the ex-slaves wished to rebuild their lives in private.
THOMAS PELLOW WAS dismayed that Commodore Stewart had not negotiated his freedom. He was heartily sick of this troubled land, notwithstanding his Moroccan wife and daughter, and longed more than ever to return to the little port of Penryn. He had even been in secret contact with the few English merchants who still traded with Salé, “yet could not I, although I very heartily endeavoured it, meet with any opportunity … wherein I might in any probability make my escape.” These merchants had struck lucrative deals with the corsairs—to whom they were selling gunpowder—and had no wish to jeopardize it by helping an escapee. Pellow concluded that rather than “make any foolish attempts that way, I thought [it] was far better to let alone.”
Fleeing from Moulay Ismail’s Morocco was indeed a perilous undertaking. Informers were scattered throughout the countryside and the black guard kept a constant watch on the movements of slaves and renegades. The difficulties were compounded by the fact that Meknes lay some four or five days’ march from the Atlantic. Worse still, many of the Christian enclaves had been captured by Moulay Ismail, leaving escapees with little option but to head for Ceuta or Mazagan.
There were favored seasons and days for escape—times when the slaves of Meknes had a slightly better chance of slipping away undetected. Father Busnot had advised setting out around the time of the equinoxes, “because then the Moors do not lie in the field, having neither corn nor fruit to guard; and the great heats being over.” Germain Mouette added that Friday was the “properest” day to escape, since many of the slave-drivers, and the feared black guard, spent much of their time at the mosque. It went without saying that any escape had to be made under the cover of darkness. No slave or renegade was brazen or foolish enough to risk his life with an attempt during the day.
Since it was a long and grueling march to the Atlantic coast, the escapee had to hoard scraps of food for several months prior to his flight. All who made a bid for freedom knew that it would be impossible to acquire any provisions en route, and many found themselves subsisting on wild flowers, grubs and unripe corn. Water posed a greater problem than food, for it was impossible to flee from Meknes with anything more than a gallon or two. Springs and waterholes were few and far between, and those with year-round water were used by the local population. Many slaves prayed for rain when they set off, but their prayers were rarely answered.
One other option available to escapees was to acquire the services of a metadore, or professional guide. For an agreed sum, the metadore would lead an escaping slave from the outskirts of Meknes to the gates of the nearest Spanish presidio. Familiar with the terrain and dressed as a traveling merchant, he was able to avoid many of the hazards that afflicted unaccompanied slaves. But the metadore’s services were strictly limited. He refused to help the slaves break out of their lodgings, nor would he supply any food. All he promised was to deliver the escapee to the gates of the presidio with speed and in safety. “[They] commonly travel all night,” wrote Father Busnot, “ … with abundance of alarms [signals] along the way, known only to their guides.” Daylight hours were spent in woods or caves, where the escapees tried to snatch some rest. Even so, it was a wearisome journey for men who had often suffered from years of fatigue and malnutrition. “Nothing can be more uneasy than such travelling,” wrote Busnot, “which is always in the dark, along by-ways, through desarts and over impracticable mountains, with little provision and in continual fear.”
There was a very real concern that the metadore would abandon or kill the slaves under his charge. If he felt there was the slightest risk of being discovered, he would disappear into the night in order to save his own skin. There was good reason for such caution. Metadores were despised by Moulay Ismail, who showed them no mercy if caught. Busnot learned of two metadores who were captured while assisting the escape of several Spanish slaves. The sultan beat the slaves, as was customary, but reserved his full fury for the metadores. “[He] condemned the Moors to have their hands nail’d to the new gate of the city,” wrote the padre, “and there to be devour’d by wild beasts.” One of the men lived for three days, “after which his dead body was expos’ d to be devour’d by wild beasts.” The other managed to pull his hand off the nail, only to be stabbed to death.
Thomas Pellow was familiar with many stories of escape and knew that any attempt would carry enormous risks. He was also aware that he would be turning his back on a lifestyle that carried certain privileges, despite the inherent dangers. An even greater dilemma was the thought that he would never again see his wife or daughter. Yet he was so desperate to escape from Morocco that he decided the possibility of freedom—however remote—outweighed all other considerations.
As a renegade, he had several advantages over the European slaves still being held in Meknes. He spoke excellent Arabic—he could certainly pass himself off as a wandering merchant—and had the freedom to choose the best moment to make his break. Most escaping slaves did so in little groups, but Pellow felt he stood a greater chance of success if he went alone.
His most recent posting was in Agoory, which lay some twenty
miles from Meknes. He decided to head for the Portuguese garrison at Mazagan, today’s El Jadida, where ex-slaves and renegades had been welcomed in the past. Although he provided few details of his flight from Agoory—he even neglected to record the date—he experienced little difficulty in traveling undetected to the coast. It took him just three and a half days to reach the windswept salt flats of the Atlantic seaboard; shortly afterward, he sighted the distant walls and bastions of Mazagan. “The fourth following night,” he wrote, “I got without any accident, and to my most unspeakable joy … [to] within a hundred yards at the utmost of the castle walls.”
Pellow could scarcely believe that his flight from Agoory had been so easy. He had managed to escape detection by the sultan’s network of spies and informers, and had faced none of the usual hardships during his hike across Morocco. Now, he found himself standing so close to the walls of Mazagan that he could make out the individual blocks of stone. He stood on the threshold of freedom; all that he needed to do was to clamber over the ramparts and surrender himself to Mazagan’s Portuguese governor.
But his run of good fortune was soon to come to an abrupt end. As he stood in total darkness, trying to work out the best place to scale the city walls, he was “laid hold on by four Moors, who had that night been upon the plunder in the gardens, but had been disturbed therein by the Portuguese sentinels.” Pellow did not see them until it was too late; “the night being excessive dark and windy, they in a narrow passage between two garden walls ran right against me and laid first hold of me.” It was a critical situation, but not irredeemable. Pellow spoke their language and might have been able to fob them off with a hastily concocted story. But he made “a very unhappy mistake.” Convinced that the men were Portuguese, he informed them that he was a Christian, intent on escape.