by H. G. Parry
“No,” Pitt said, a little warily. His close friendship with Dundas was something of a sore point. Wilberforce liked the Scotsman well enough, and understood he’d been instrumental in Pitt’s rise to power. But he couldn’t help but notice that Pitt’s evenings with Dundas tended to stretch into long hours of drinking and political strategizing, and that Dundas was not very scrupulous about either. “But I knew he wasn’t on our side over the issue. I suppose he felt an agreement to abolish the trade gradually is preferable to a straight defeat.”
“But it might not have been a defeat had the alternative not given the waverers a way to avoid the issue. If the trade is indeed abolished slowly, it might be worth it, but you know as well as I do that in all probability nothing will be done—and in the meantime we can’t move to have the trade abolished again. The issue will be considered settled. Thornton said it was a step in the right direction, but it’s really a step the other way.”
“I know.” Pitt sighed. “I’m not really excusing him this time. Actually, I’m very annoyed with him. He can vote however he thinks best, of course, but in this case I know exactly why he did it, and I know he thought it was for my sake as much as his own. I’m not twenty-four anymore, and I don’t need him to protect me. Particularly not at this cost.”
That was uncharacteristically bitter enough to pull Wilberforce out of his own depression. He looked at Pitt more closely. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Pitt said, having recovered his equilibrium. “I’ll remember that when I’ve slept for an hour or two. Dundas was trying to do the right thing; that’s what people all do, in general.”
“Even Tarleton? And Larrington?”
“Certainly not. I did say ‘people.’”
Wilberforce snorted, but his smile faded quickly. “You were right to tell us not to go ahead. This was the wrong time. Some of the Abolition Society were concerned about it too, and I told them it was right to push ahead. I’ve failed them—and hundreds of thousands of others, of course…”
“Stop it,” Pitt warned. “We’ve been thoroughly over the question of who’s at fault. You were right to push ahead—I know I told you not to, but I was being a politician. Your principles were sound, and your rhetoric was flawless. There’s nothing you can do about how the vote came out. Think about what you need to do next to make this work.”
Wilberforce nodded. “Thank you. That’s very good advice.”
“Well,” Pitt said. “I’m used to giving it to myself.”
“Do you take it?”
“Always. But I resent myself for being so infuriatingly reasonable at times like this.”
Wilberforce’s smile was far more genuine this time.
“About Clarkson—” Pitt heard himself say, almost without meaning to.
Wilberforce turned, surprised. “What about Clarkson?”
Pitt shook his head, infuriated with himself. “Never mind. Probably nothing.”
“You can’t stop there. What is it?”
“I don’t think I’ve met with Clarkson in person since you were unwell. Before the fall of the Bastille.”
“No. No, you probably haven’t. He’s hardly ever in London these days. He travels all the time, giving demonstrations and collecting evidence. I can’t remember how many sailors he’s talked to, but it’s in the tens of thousands. Why? What’s wrong?”
“As I said, perhaps nothing. I just… I never noticed he was an alchemist before.”
Wilberforce frowned. “He’s what?”
“Unregistered, obviously. He isn’t wearing a bracelet. But I definitely felt it, just now. I can’t think how I could have missed it before. It’s almost as if his abilities have awakened—but I’ve never heard of that happening after childhood. I would have sworn it was impossible.”
“How very strange.” Pitt saw the exact moment the import of this caught up to Wilberforce. His friend wasn’t angry, but shock had almost the same effect on his voice. “You can’t mean… We were investigating the idea that the sabotage at Saint-Domingue came from the opposition.”
“We were,” Pitt agreed. “But, as you said, we might have been trying to be too clever. I was rather stuck on the idea that the shadows and the uprising were connected. If they aren’t, however, then the culprit is as likely to be an abolitionist as the reverse.”
“Clarkson, though? Honestly?”
“You did just say that he was desperate and close to giving up.”
“We’re all desperate and close to giving up!” Wilberforce protested. “We’ve been doing this for three years—Clarkson’s been doing it for even longer. He’s exhausted. It doesn’t mean that he’s resorted to criminal activity.”
“No, of course not. But he’s been traveling back and forth to France since ’89. And the sudden alchemy in his blood is strange.”
“Inheritances strengthen with practice,” Wilberforce said reluctantly. “Could that be the reason?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Pitt said, but he wasn’t convinced. “When people say that, though, they really mean that the ability to use an Inheritance strengthens, not the bloodlines themselves. I’ve never heard of those becoming stronger.”
“Would his abilities now be strong enough to have unlocked the compound?”
“I believe so,” Pitt said. “Yes.”
Wilberforce was silent.
“I don’t mean to insist he’s responsible,” Pitt said. “I don’t know him well enough to judge. But he’s your friend, and you’re an excellent judge of character, so I’m asking you if such actions would accord with his temperament. If you say they wouldn’t, I’ll abandon the entire idea.”
He meant it. He trusted Wilberforce, both to be honest with him and—more important—to be right. Wilberforce knew everyone, and he knew them all well. And yet it didn’t surprise him when Wilberforce bit his lip and looked at the ground.
“He wouldn’t have sanctioned the massacre of so many slave owners,” he said cautiously. “Or the civil war that’s been raging ever since. He’s certainly frustrated, but he’s not…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps. I’ll see him at the meeting tomorrow evening. Do you want me to talk to him?”
“Tactfully,” Pitt admitted, with a faint wince. He hadn’t imagined, after the vote, that the day had been about to get worse. “If you don’t mind. Even if he did nothing himself, he may know who did.”
“If he does,” Wilberforce said, “I’m not entirely sure I want to know myself. The Knights Templar did talk to us, you know, when it happened. They talked to me, even though I’m pure Commoner. They’re suspicious because so many of us are also behind the magic-registration reforms. I told them we don’t do things this way.”
“Well, you don’t. But somebody clearly does. And I must admit, I’m finding lately that things do change.”
“Not the right things,” Wilberforce said, with a glance back at the debating chamber.
“No,” Pitt agreed. “Not the right things at all.”
The rain had started in earnest as the twelve or so people who had gathered at Old Palace Yard looked over the cargo manifests Clarkson had brought from Bristol. It lashed against the windows behind the drawn curtains and lent a chill to the room that the glowing fire struggled to penetrate.
“Courtesy of a good few hours spent in a pub,” Clarkson said. “Sailors are usually willing to talk once you’ve put a few pints in them. I arranged to tour another ship while I was there as well. They’d tried to tidy it up, of course, but they couldn’t hide the berths the size of coffins or the stench belowdecks.”
“I remember,” Macaulay said grimly. “It feels sometimes like something of their souls stays behind on that ship when they’re first spellbound, doesn’t it? They sink into the walls.”
“Their souls don’t go anywhere,” Thornton said, with a touch of firmness. Wilberforce knew this was no reflection of a lack of feeling, but his cousin did feel it his duty to keep the imaginations
of the more highly strung members from running too wild. Tonight, after their failure the night before, that was needed more than ever. “That sounds like what the plantation owners claim. They’re robbed of their freedom and their will. It’s terrible enough without being morbid.”
“It does feel like that, though,” Clarkson said. “Morbid or not, it does.”
Wilberforce watched the room as Clarkson talked. Granville and Macaulay, the oldest and youngest members of the committee respectively, sat side by side, listening intently. Hannah More examined the diagram Clarkson had drawn up from the cargo manifests with an expression of distaste.
Most of all, though, he watched Clarkson. He had indeed arrived back in London only yesterday from his travels up north, and he looked exhausted and ill: his face was sallow, and the heaviness of his eyes wasn’t burned away by vehemence as it often was. Once or twice he paused to rub his brow, as if overtaken by dizziness.
The annoying thing was, what Pitt had said was true: if Wilberforce told him that he was confident Clarkson would never do anything like what he’d suggested, alchemist or not, then Pitt would accept it. It was how his friend worked. He threw ideas at people who could be considered specialists in a relevant field, and if they declared them to be impossible, he readily agreed and moved on to the next possibility.
The trouble was, however much he wanted to, Wilberforce couldn’t say it for certain. Clarkson believed, Wilberforce knew, in freeing slaves. They all did, but for Clarkson the phrase was literal and tangible. For Wilberforce, it was a question of movement toward legal and social change, within the walls of the House of Commoners and the hearts of the people. Clarkson wanted to break chains. It was entirely possible that he might not care what else was broken at the same time.
“They had artifacts on the ship,” Clarkson was saying. “From Africa. Beautiful things: carved charms, and blankets. I have some of them here. I thought if we could show the public what the people they were spellbinding are really capable of…”
“Clarkson,” Wilberforce said tentatively; he almost didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until Clarkson turned. “You were in France about the time of the sabotage to Saint-Domingue, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Clarkson said. “I would think so. That would have been back in early ’91, wouldn’t it? Why?”
“Oh, no reason, really,” Wilberforce said, then was instantly disgusted at himself. That was more than a lie; it was a stupid one. “Well, one reason. I was just wondering if you knew anything about who might have done it. You were there when the Bastille was sacked as well.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Clarkson said sharply.
“Well, it’s when the original magicians were set free,” Wilberforce reminded him. “All the fire-mages and telekinetics and mesmers… and alchemists. You never said you met any of them, but I was wondering…”
“If I in fact made a secret alliance with them? And then worked with them to commit magical sabotage on the alchemy in Paris due to be shipped to Saint-Domingue?”
“I didn’t say that,” Wilberforce said, trying to keep an even tone against the bite of Clarkson’s sarcasm. “I just wondered if you knew anything.”
“Would it matter if he had?” Macaulay spoke up. “Honestly, I don’t see the problem. We want to free slaves, don’t we?”
“Not by force,” Wilberforce said. It was an old argument. “Not through violent uprising.”
“The death toll’s in the thousands now,” Hannah More pointed out. “Masters, insurgents, women, and children. That entire colony’s drenched in blood.”
“Like France herself,” Granville Sharp said. “I had very high hopes for that Revolution, you know. It seemed to be doing everything we’re aiming for: unlocking of bracelets, breaking of chains, all that. But it’s already sent Europe into war, and we’ll probably be joining it within months.”
“You don’t know that,” Wilberforce said firmly.
“So something went wrong,” Macaulay insisted. “Perhaps the compound the saboteur used was too strong, or given to too many or not enough. The principle was sound.”
“My feelings exactly,” Clarkson said. “They might get it right next time. Wouldn’t you approve of it then?”
“How?” Wilberforce asked, beginning to feel irritated. “How can anyone get it right? What could possibly be right about anything that’s happening over there? People are dying.”
“And you think I caused it, do you? Well, as a matter of fact, I agree with Macaulay: I don’t see it would be so wrong if I had. But you have no right to accuse me.”
“He didn’t accuse you,” Hannah More said impatiently. “He asked if you knew anything. It’s a reasonable request, given that you were in France in ’89 and again at the time of the sabotage.”
“And how could I have known anything if I wasn’t behind it? How could it matter where I was, if I wasn’t involved?”
“Calm down,” Granville Sharp said. “All of you. I know we’re all tired and out of spirits, but—”
“That’s an understatement,” Clarkson said. His voice was carefully controlled, but there was fury seething behind it. “All those years of work, just for one more defeat. They didn’t even try to say we were fabricating the evidence this time, do you realize that? We showed them exactly what the trade was; we made them acknowledge it. They just don’t care. I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
“And we can?” Thornton demanded. “Wilberforce is killing himself over this.”
“Henry, please,” Wilberforce said quietly, with a surge of both embarrassment and panic. It was too late.
“Don’t you dare try to tell me there are others who are doing more than me!” Clarkson hissed, his reserve suddenly breaking. “I’ve given this my entire life. I’ve traveled all over England and half of Europe trying to find people to help us. I’ve gone to places Wilberforce wouldn’t dare soil his boots with; I’ve made deals with people Wilberforce wouldn’t dare think of. I’ve written till my fingers have bled, I’ve spoken till my words and throat have dried up, I’ve threatened, pleaded, begged, cajoled, bribed, and broken, and still nothing has changed. Still!”
“Wilberforce says he can—” Thornton started to say.
“Oh, will everybody just shut up about blasted Wilberforce!” Clarkson snapped, getting to his feet angrily. “If I have to hear one more word about the blasted Nightingale of the House of Commoners, I’m going to ship myself to Africa and volunteer myself for the slave market to have an end to it.”
Sympathetic as Wilberforce was to Clarkson, that hurt. “You were happy enough to hear about blasted Wilberforce when you wanted a voice in the House of Commoners!” he said despite himself. “I could nightingale to my heart’s content then, as far as you were concerned.”
“It was my mistake!”
Thornton shot to his feet opposite. “You apologize for that!”
“Why on earth should I? When have any of you ever apologized to me?”
“Wilberforce has done as much for this cause as you—at least as much!”
“And what has come of any of it, apart from everybody now knowing his name?”
“Is that what this is about? Are you jealous?”
“Thornton, Clarkson—” Wilberforce started to say.
“Jealous of what?” Clarkson interrupted, ignoring him. “Correct me if I am wrong, but to my knowledge he hasn’t achieved anything! None of us have achieved anything! Four years since we brought this to Parliament!”
“The country is on the brink of war!”
“And that gives it an excuse for the torture and spellbinding of thousands of innocent lives?”
“Oh, for the love of God!” Wilberforce exclaimed, with a sudden surge of temper. “Would everybody please just shut up!”
In retrospect, it was the best thing he could have done. It wasn’t for nothing that Wilberforce’s voice was one of the most renowned of the House of Commoners; moreover, the unexpectedness of that v
oice rising in anger against them was enough to make both Clarkson and Thornton blink in surprise and turn to look at him.
Wilberforce took a deep breath, trying to calm both his heart and his feelings. It was only then that he realized he had leaped to his feet and was gripping the table with both hands. “Thank you,” he said, with a quiet he didn’t feel. Anger, frustration, and hurt were still warring for attention within him, and it was hard to find God in the midst of it. “Clarkson, I’m sorry. You’ve given more to this cause than any of us. I had no right to imply you were involved, I know. It’s just… It’s made things terribly difficult, that uprising and the climate in France, and I would like it put to rest.”
For a second Clarkson seemed poised to reject the opening for reconciliation, but all at once the anger drained from his face. “No, I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. You’ve done as much as anyone could do in bringing this to Parliament; it’s not your fault it hasn’t worked.”
“Yet,” Wilberforce reminded him, and was rewarded with a faint, though resigned, flicker of a smile.
“Yet, I hope. But you must admit, with war against France on the horizon, things seem to be more hopeless than ever.”
“You can’t blame people for being afraid,” Thornton said, but in a softer tone.
“I can blame them for letting their fear dictate their actions,” Clarkson returned.
“So can I,” Wilberforce sighed, then caught himself. “But I will not. It’s neither helpful nor kind.”
Clarkson snorted, but with less bitterness and more affection. “So says the man who just remembered to say ‘please’ when having an emotional outburst.”
“He used ‘to nightingale’ as a verb, also,” Thornton reminded him. “Mr. Pitt would despair.”
That did make Wilberforce smile, despite everything.
Clarkson smiled briefly too, then took a deep breath and seemed to be choosing his words with care. “I do wish Saint-Domingue hadn’t happened as it did, even if I can’t be sorry that it happened at all. I only hope that next time, as Macaulay says, the alchemist in question will manage things better. But I can’t shed any light on the matter for you. I didn’t go near the factories where the alchemy is made when I was in Paris last time. I mostly spoke with the abolition movement over there—much good it did.”