The bump to Charlotte’s head plus the brandy seemed to make her sleepy.
George managed to get her into the carriage and climbed in alongside.
‘Home,’ he ordered the coachman.
The carriage sped through the Liverpool streets. Charlotte, close to sleep, flopped against George. The smooth skin on her arms and the memory of her breast sent the blood pounding through his body. She smelled of flowers, clean and sweet. George felt very protective of her. It had been a long time since he felt protective towards a woman, not since his wife died all those years ago. He placed his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders in an attempt to cushion her from the bumps of the ride. She half smiled as her eyes closed, and he felt her settle into his shoulder as she drifted into sleep.
The coach stopped in front of the Nicholson’s house on St Anne Street. The coachman jumped down and ran up the steps to bang on the front door, which was almost immediately opened by the butler.
George climbed from the coach, and dropped the small steps to assist Charlotte from the coach. ‘Fetch Mrs Nicholson!’ he called the butler, as he supported Charlotte up the short flight of stairs.
‘Myrtle, put two warming pans in Miss Charlotte’s bed quickly,’ called Sarah Nicholson to one of the housemaids as soon as she realised what the commotion was.
George and Sarah laid Charlotte on a chaise longue near the fire in the sitting room. As Sarah arranged Charlotte’s head on a cushion, she sniffed and smelt brandy.
‘Why does she smell of brandy, Mr King? Have you been plying my daughter with intoxicants?’ demanded Sarah, her glare implying that he was the smallest and nastiest thing she could imagine.
‘Madam, I assure you I only gave her a drop of brandy, and that was purely for medicinal reasons.’
‘Medicinal reasons!’ repeated Sarah loudly. ‘I perceive that she has a large lump on her head, which I can only surmise is the result of falling down drunk like some common street woman.’
George replied, ‘Madam you judge us both wrong. Let me tell you what happened.’
‘I do not wish to discuss this any further. Kindly leave my home. I will inform her father of today’s happening. I expect he will wish to know why his business partner is supplying his daughter with intoxicants, why she can hardly stand, and why she has marks on her face. Good day, Sir!’
George rose from the side of the chaise longue.
What a wicked woman, he thought, thinking I would harm Charlotte or take advantage of her in any way. He glanced at Charlotte, who was asleep, turned and marched out of the room.
‘Your hat and cane, Sir,’ said the butler coldly from the top of the steps.
‘Thank you,’ said George, and placed the hat on his head. The butler turned his back and walked into the house. The door closed loudly behind him.
The incident was now months ago, and the misunderstanding had been cleared up. When Charlotte had awoken the following day with a dull headache, she had explained to her mother how George had looked after her and brought her home.
Her mother had sniffed loudly. She still held doubts about George’s involvement and intent.
Donald was more understanding and commented to George that it would be some time before Sarah would warm to him, but he would do his best to smooth things over.
Tonight’s dinner was going well and he had received some warmth from Sarah. He glanced at Charlotte and smiled. ‘Are you comfortable, my dear?’
‘Thank you, George, I am,’ said Charlotte, and glanced down the long table. Wine glasses and cutlery sparkled in the light from the cut-glass chandelier above the centre of the table. The murmur of voices rose and fell as the guests carried on their conversations.
George picked up his spoon, and tapped his wine glass to attract his guests’ attention. The chattering subsided as he pushed back his chair and stood.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast before the main course. I wish to thank you all for coming to help me celebrate my new home.’ He raised his glass and glanced from one guest to another all around the table and said in a loud voice, ‘Thank you all. A Merry Christmas and profitable 1806 to one and all!’
As George sat down, Donald Nicholson stood and said in a loud and booming voice: ‘As your partner, George, I think it only right I answer your toast on behalf of us all. We are pleased to be here tonight and I am sure we all look forward to a profitable 1806. Nevertheless, this will not come about if we allow the likes of Butterfly Wilberforce and his anti-slavery friends to lead Parliament down the wrong path. Our city is built on the African trade and there are thousands in the land who also benefit, from Yorkshire through to the second greatest city in the Empire, Liverpool!’
The last word was shouted and brought many of the male guests to their feet with rousing shouts of ‘African trade and Liverpool. A pox on the Butterfly!’
George noticed, with some consternation, that Owen Johnston had not drunk the toast, nor did he stand. George thought him an odd fellow and wondered if he was an abstainer of alcohol. If so, he would have a poor life without a glass of wine to keep him company on a cold night.
Chapter Six
The Liverpool Road
Liverpool Coach
December 1805
William King felt fit and well, as he conned HMS Nancy into the Fal River under the shadow of Pendennis Castle. The cooler temperatures of the Bay of Biscay had helped to reduce his fever, and the clean, fresh salt air assisted the healing of his wounds.
‘Let go!’ shouted William to Midshipman McCall on the forecastle.
The anchor dropped through the grey waters of the river as the sails were furled. The voyage was over. The Spanish prize, with the Union flag flying above the flag of Spain, anchored under the guns of the Nancy, two ships lengths towards the shore.
‘The flagship is signalling, Sir,’ called Hargrove the master.
‘Captain to repair on board?’
‘Aye, Sir, I’ll have your boat made ready.’
‘Thank you, I’ll go below and change.’
‘Come in, Commander, and sit yourself down. How is it with you? I see you have a prize.’
‘Yes, Sir, a slaver captured south of the Canary Islands. My report, Sir, and I have dispatches from the Cape.’
‘Prize money for you, young man,’ commented the admiral as he accepted William’s report.
‘Yes, Sir, but she has over a hundred slaves aboard, and in our climate they are suffering from the cold.’
‘Damn and blast, what are we to do with a hundred slaves?’ William remained silent. He was only too glad to hand over the responsibility of the slaves’ welfare. ‘I’ll read your report later. Give me a brief outline of what happened in South Africa, and of the slaver. Sit down, sit down, I get a pain in the neck looking up at people.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ William chose an upright chair and sat down. ‘As ordered Sir, I proceeded to …’
On completion of his report to the admiral, he had been told of the victory off Cape Trafalgar, and the death of Nelson. His emotions were mixed. He wasn’t sure if he was glad because of the victory or sad for Nelson’s death.
The final blow came towards the end of the meeting. He was to be relieved of his command and sent to the local hospital for a full check-up. He would then be placed on half pay while the government decided on the number of officers and seamen required to man the fleet, now that the enemy had lost so many ships.
William doubted he would be retained.
The light rain splattered off his hat and cape as William entered the inn. He handed both garments to a servant. ‘I’ll be in the parlour, please fetch some hot tea.’
William stood at the window gazing out at the dull, rain-soaked afternoon. He heard the tray rattle as the servant entered the room. ‘Put it on the table, please. I’ll serve myself.’
It had been three weeks since he’d collected his back pay. He had obtained an advance on his hundred pound prize money from a London prize agent wh
o had charged a small commission for the advance, but William knew he would be better off with most of the prize money now, rather than waiting months or years for the government to pay him.
With his new-found wealth he moved to an inn near the Strand, in London where he spent time contemplating his future. The Navy was contracting. Should he stay and hope for a new ship or should he resign and talk to his father about a position on one of the company’s ships? Perhaps he could get a first mate’s position, or even refresh his knowledge of the business and help run it.
After many days of contemplation, he decided to go back to Liverpool and talk to his father. If he couldn’t find a position on one of his father’s ships he would return to London and petition the Admiralty. He remembered his last trip by coach from Liverpool to London, before reporting to the Admiralty. It had been a hard trip, though at least it was summer, and he had sat outside with the driver for the four-day journey. Now, as an officer and a gentleman, he wished to ride in comfort.
William noted the Royal Arms emblazoned on the carriage doors, and the upper panels embossed with the insignia of the four principle orders of Knighthood. Unlike the regular commercial coaches, this one carried a number, not a name, and bore the simple words ‘Royal Mail’, with the names of the two places at either end of its journey – London and Liverpool. He climbed into the coach, under the flickering oil lights of the inn’s courtyard, and secured a seat inside facing forward. It was a few minutes before departure time; the last of the mail was being loaded.
There were two other passengers – an elderly couple who smiled at him when they saw his uniform. He hoped they would be the only ones beside him. The extra room for his legs would make the higher cost of the ticket a little more bearable. Glancing out of the window, he saw a large man hurrying towards the coach.
‘Wait! Wait!’ he was shouting, waving his hand.
The coach driver – not seeming to notice him – climbed up to his seat and, with great authority, ordered the ostlers to remove the horse coverings. He then turned to the guard behind him, who contemplated his timepiece.
The large man reached the coach and pulled open the door just as the guard called out, ‘All ready inside and out!’
William leaned out of the window, looked up at the driver and thumped the side of the coach shouting, ‘Ahoy there. You have another passenger!’
‘Close that door,’ the driver shouted, looking at William. ‘We will not be late departing.’
The whip cracked over the ears of the four horses and the wheels began to turn. Chains rattled and the horses’ hooves began a rhythmic clip-clopping as they dragged the coach over the cobbled stone yard.
William slammed the door shut as the sweating man collapsed into the seat in front of him. The traveller pulled out a large handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow, while his lungs dragged in the cold night air in short gasps. ‘I am much obliged, Sir, thank you,’ he gasped. ‘I cannot afford to have missed tonight’s coach.’
He sat for some time with his carpetbag clutched to his knees. Eventually his breathing calmed. He leaned out of the window with his bag and swung it high over his head so that it landed on the roof of the coach.
‘Guard, watch my bag, if you please. There will be a shilling for you at the next stage!’
At the mention of a shilling, the guard grabbed the bag as it rolled on the coach’s roof.
The older couple sat quietly, fascinated by the little spectacle they had witnessed. It was evidently all part of the journey’s entertainment.
’Madam, Sir,’ said the large man as he flopped back into his seat, ‘my apologies for such an entrance, and I hope I have not disturbed you too much.’
‘Not at all, Sir, not at all,’ smiled the elderly man.
The large man smiled back, and then faced William.
‘Thomas Clarkson, at your service,’ and held out his hand.
‘William King, destined for Liverpool.’
‘As I am! I am sure we will get to know each other in the next couple of days. I have visited Liverpool a number of times, and find the time goes faster when one meets strangers to chat about everyday things. A naval officer, I see. Is it business or pleasure that takes you to Liverpool?’
‘I am on my way home. On leave.’
The coach shuddered as the horses took the strain while the driver navigated Lombard Street towards the Great North Road.
‘Oh!’ said the elderly lady, and rolled down the canvas curtain near her seat. She dabbed a small perfumed handkerchief under her nose, the smell from the streets too much for her.
The miles clicked by, during which William learned that Thomas worked with William Wilberforce, the anti-slavery advocator. Thomas spent weeks on the road gathering evidence from thousands of sailors who had served in slave ships. He also collected leg irons, handcuffs, branding irons and instruments used to force open a slave’s mouth. These instruments he would produce in evidence to persuade Parliament that slavery should be illegal. William could feel the passion of Thomas’s conviction that slavery was immoral and against God’s order. The conversation between William and Clarkson continued until they arrived, after two hours, at the first stage. On the approach, the guard blew his horn to warn the stage that the mail coach was near, and for them to have any northbound mail ready.
The changeover of horses took less than three minutes, which was enough time for William and his talkative new friend to walk around the yard and relieve their cramped muscles. Back in the coach, conversations resumed until both men fell silent, and eventually slept.
It was the sound of a horn that woke them – the coach was near another stage. William pulled his watch from his pocket and squinted in the low light to study its face.
‘Good morning,’ said William, as Thomas Clarkson slowly awoke, ‘it appears to be almost half past six, and the horn has gone again.’
‘I heard every one of the blasts last night. I never get used to sleeping in coaches. Takes me a day or so to get over this type of journey.’
Soon the coach pulled into the Cock Inn, at Stony Stratford, a popular inn that was near to halfway between London and the North.
The driver pulled the coach to a halt outside the main door and yelled down to his passengers, ‘Twenty-five minutes. We leave at five minutes to seven.’
The air was filled with the cries of drivers and ostlers. Passengers wandered restlessly to ease the stiffness in their joints. Others went in search of hot food and drink. Lit torches cast flicker pools of yellow light across the courtyard. The smoke from the torches mixed with the smell of sweating horses and unwashed humanity.
‘Perhaps a hot drink, William, and some food.’
William dropped to the ground and stamped his feet. ‘A hot drink and breakfast sounds a capital idea.’
The two men entered the inn and were greeted by a hubbub of noise. Waiters ran from room to room with plates of hot food. A barber and his mate walked around shouting, ‘Shave, first class shave!’ Boot-boys climbed the stairs two at a time to deliver cleaned boots to their owners.
‘It appears we have entered a madhouse,’ cried William over the noise.
Thomas opened a nearby door marked Parlour and glanced inside. ‘In here, William, there are only a few people, so it should be a little quieter.’
The smell of cooking wafted through the inn and made both men’s mouths water. The large, warm room was about a third full, but the area around the roaring fire was free.
Thomas rubbed his hands together. ‘I thought I’d lost all feeling in them. At least the heat reminds me that I am still alive,’ he laughed. He watched a young lad push into the room, his arms full of balanced plates stacked with hot food. ‘Boy!’ he called.
‘Be with you in a minute, Sir,’ answered the boy, and skilfully slid the plates across a table where a family group sat.
Thomas turned to William. ‘Coffee, chops, roast potatoes and a small brandy for medicinal purposes, I think.’
&nbs
p; ‘Sounds appetising. It will fill a gap. But will they get it to us in time? The coach leaves at five minutes to seven.’
‘Boy, take this order and have it to us within three minutes. There’ll be sixpence for your trouble. We’ll have chops, roast potatoes, coffee and brandy for two!’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the boy, and rushed from the room. The sixpence was as good as his. The food order had been cooking for some time as it was a regular favourite of travellers.
William and his companion sat near the fire and resumed their conversation from the previous evening.
‘You were saying about the slave trade being immoral and inhuman,’ prompted William.
‘Ah. Yes, it is a trade I have spent my adult life trying to stop. We have taken a number of votes against the trade in the House, and all but one was successful. The blockage has always been in the House of Lords. I have travelled everywhere to collect information to prove the trade’s wickedness, and I am on my way to Liverpool to meet some like-minded people. We hope to persuade the shipping company owners that the slave trade is reprehensible and morally wrong. We now have the Commons convinced and, with God’s help, it is only a matter of time before we get the Abolition Bill passed. Regardless of current setbacks, we grow stronger all of the time, and we will see a stop to this terrible trade.’
The boy entered the room with plates of food.
‘Ah! Breakfast,’ cried William, as the boy set a plate before each man. They both fell silent and ate quickly.
‘Liverpool mail coach departing in three minutes,’ came a shout from within the inn.
‘Our call, William,’ said Thomas through a mouthful of food. ‘How uncivilised we have become, with our desire for speed. I can remember when the London to Liverpool journey would take nearly a week, and we would enjoy the experience of travel. I must say, not all of the hostelries were of a standard one would recommend to one’s friends, but at least we did not get indigestion.’
William quickly drank the hot coffee, followed by the brandy. The heat from the fire, the food and drink had warmed him. He was ready to face the next stage of the journey.
Triangle Trade Page 7