8
I thought I would be staying with Frances Sancho but Mr Furman took me back to his lodgings through the dark London streets. He reminded me to tell anyone who asked that I was his son.
In the streets, torches flared against the darkness. There was so much to see: pie sellers and street musicians, a girl with a dancing dog. There was a lightness to my step, even though I wore new (to me) boots that rubbed my toes. Was this what freedom felt like? Everything seemed interesting, everything sharper. Even the bad smells.
As we crossed the road, Mr Furman waved at a man driving a wagon. As it came closer, the smell was so strong I thought I would be sick. Mr Furman talked to the driver but I stayed back. The smell was the worst I’d ever known, worse than the stink of rotten food, or horse manure.
Mr Furman said his farewells and laughed at me. “That’s the night-soil man. Only have them in the cities, I expect you’ve never seen the like.”
“Night soil?” I asked. “What’s that?”
“Soil as in dirt. Human dirt. They empty the closets in the houses. Dig the stuff out of the cesspits. And those men take it out of the city.”
“A cart full of—”
Mr Furman cut in. “You got it, Nathaniel. Those fellows only work in the dark when the ladies and gentlemen are asleep. My friend Colley makes a good living out of what he gets for free.”
“How does he do that?”
“Sells it. There’s farmers pay him well.”
“Like horse manure?” I asked.
“Exactly that! I tell you, Nathaniel, I couldn’t do it, but Colley, he doesn’t smell a thing any more.”
I asked how he knew the man and Mr Furman told me that he had fought alongside Colley on the British side in the American War of Independence. He explained how the British had promised the slaves in America their freedom if they fought the rebels who wanted America to be a new country, and not part of Great Britain. And how his own wife and child were sold into the south before he could find them.
“I have a daughter not much younger than you in America, in Maryland,” he said. “If she is still alive.” He looked away and wiped a tear. I did not want to ask if he would see them again.
“Why do they do it, Mr Furman?” I asked. “Why do they treat us this way? Hurt us, sell us, send our families away.”
Mr Furman thought for a long time. “Because they can.” He looked up at the sky. “But one thing I always held on to, all those years I was enslaved; they might have your body, but they can never have your mind. Be free inside.”
I nodded. But I had decided, I would never let anyone buy or sell me ever again.
Mr Furman promised that tomorrow, after the trial, he’d find someone to take me out of the city. I wanted to ask again about The Cat and Mutton, but thought I would keep that question for Mr Kelsall when I spoke to him after the trial. He’d know where Henry was.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. Mr Furman’s room was up four sets of stairs. I thought we would almost reach the moon there were so many. The house was full of noise too. Outside in the street, a pig snuffled through rubbish, inside dogs barked, babies cried and an argument raged on a floor below. But even so, this was the room of a free man and it felt to me like the best place in the whole world.
I would have been happy to sleep in the armchair, which was losing its stuffing but looked comfortable enough. Mr Furman, however, insisted that I take the bed. And as soon as I hit the mattress I slept, dreaming of sunlight and a world without the old mistress, her son, or her parrot. My first night as a free man.
When I woke, Mr Furman had made a small fire to heat some water for tea.
“It will be a long day, Mr Barratt,” he said.
“I have never been to a trial,” I said. “Once one of the field hands, Naomi she was called, was said to have stolen some callaloo – that’s like spinach – from another woman’s vegetable patch. But Naomi swore blind that callaloo was her own! Old Thomas – he was the gardener and one of the oldest slaves on the plantation – was set to deciding which woman was telling the truth. He made them share.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t have done it. How can you tell who is telling the truth when folk lie so easily?”
Mr Furman nodded. “Folk open their mouth and lies fall out. But this is different, this trial. Oh, it’s not simply about whether some rich white folk get richer, this is about whether we are human beings or blocks of wood.”
He sighed. I didn’t say anything. Truth was, I couldn’t imagine those folk that owned slaves, that forced us to work for nothing, wanted to see us as more than something they could buy or sell – or throw overboard.
After a mug of tea, we walked to Westminster. I had never seen such buildings! The Abbey was bigger than anything I could have imagined, with its pointy spires and towers. I could not believe mere men had built it. Mr Furman laughed and said I should see St Paul’s Cathedral. Then we reached Westminster Hall, an old square building black with dirt, and Mr Furman told me that once the English had tried their own king here, a long time ago. And cut his head off! I thought if they could do that to their own king, then perhaps anything was possible.
And there were so many people! Mr Furman said all the black and brown folk of London would be here to see what happened, and it looked like he was right. Footmen and chairmen in their masters’ fine livery. Women in colourful silk and satins, with hats that must have cost the same as a maid’s annual earnings. Working men and women in aprons and boots. Folk off the street in no boots at all. Then I saw one man, white and heavy-built, head and shoulders above most of the crowd, big as a mountain. I thought I was imagining it at first but he was staring right at me. I felt a flicker of fear and pulled my cap down over my eyes, drawing close to Mr Furman.
We followed the crowd and went inside, past stalls selling oranges and nuts, and up some wooden stairs to a kind of gallery above the open space of the court. Mr Furman seemed to know everyone, and I thought it would take all day to find our seats as he stopped to talk to so many folk. I recognized some of the fellows from last night, sober-suited men with grey hair. Mr Furman pulled me over.
“Nathaniel! Meet Mr Equiano. His name, mark my words, will be known across the world in time.”
Equiano shook his head and took my hand.
Mr Furman went on. “He is writing his life story, Nat.”
Mr Equiano smiled. “I doubt a soul will read it.”
“Capture and freedom? What better story is there, man?” Mr Furman said and I thought I agreed.
I was astonished – a black man, writing his own story! I thought books were for white people. Maybe it would be worth learning my letters if only to be able to read Mr Equiano’s book. Or perhaps, one day, to have the chance to tell my own story, to write it up and have folk read it.
“He bought and paid for his own freedom,” Mr Furman said. I would have liked to have asked how much it had cost, but Mr Furman was already introducing me to another man.
“And this here is Mr Granville Sharp.”
He was a white man, sharp by name and by features, I thought.
“Good morning, Mr Sharp,” I said. The gentleman took my hand and shook it, ordinary as anything. His smile was warm. I looked for Mr Kelsall but there was no sign. I crossed my fingers behind my back. He had to be here! I tried to listen to the gentleman’s conversation but the general noise of the crowd made it hard. Mr Sharp had written to all the newspapers, he said.
“This is an offence against God. We have the Lord Mansfield making the judgement, the foremost legal mind in all of England.”
“Aye,” answered Equiano, “and the slave owners have the Solicitor General to argue for their side.”
“We should be able to speak for ourselves!” Mr Furman said and I have to say I agreed with him.
Mr Equiano put an arm on Mr Furman’s shoulder. “We have to follow the rules.”
Mr Equiano sighed. “One day, Shadrack, one day we will all be as free as they are.”
“I hope to heaven I live long enough to see that…”
Granville Sharp nodded. “As long as we English exploit our fellow men then none of us is free.”
I looked at Mr Sharp. I thought he had a clever face.
“And Mr Kelsall?” Mr Furman asked. Mr Equiano looked down into the court below. I looked too and saw the first mate of The Brave Venture waiting to play his part. I almost waved but thought he would not see me up here. Mr Kelsall seemed nervous, tugging at his collar, eyes darting around the court.
Suddenly a call came from the court “All Rise!” The crowd stood up. A white man came in, wearing a bright red robe – I thought it was a dress at first – and a long powdered wig. I spotted Frances Sancho waving us over. The man in the robe and wig sat down. Mr Equiano, Mr Sharp, Mr Furman and I all settled down on the bench next to Frances.
“That’s Lord Mansfield himself,” she whispered, and passed round a bag full of oranges. I took one and slipped it into my pocket for later.
Even though we were high up I could hear almost every word that was said in court. It seemed to carry up into the roof clear as a bell. The crowd around us in the gallery gasped as the details of the case were set out by yet another man in a wig, although his was not so long as Lord Mansfield’s. He spoke with his chest puffed out, and his voice was silky. Mr Furman whispered that he was the Solicitor General, the man arguing that the ship’s crew did the right thing in throwing all those people overboard.
He said how the Zong carried far too many slaves for its size, but that Captain Collingwood had only ever tried to save as much of his cargo as he could. He threw some of the cargo overboard because there had not been enough water for everyone.
“Cargo!” Mr Furman cursed under his breath.
The Solicitor General went on. “On November the twenty-ninth, fifty-four slaves, women and children, were thrown overboard, and then, on December the first forty-two men. Over the following few days another thirty-six men were thrown into the sea alive. It was not an attempt to claim insurance,” the Solicitor General looked around the court. Watching in the gallery, the crowd hissed until we were told to quiet.
“Remember, gentlemen, this is not a murder trial!” the Solicitor General said. “This is merely about property, about the disposal of goods and the proper payment of insurance.”
The Solicitor General went on. “These slaves, they were all property, not humans. We are not talking about matters of cruelty!”
I would have thrown something at him if I could. But down on the floor of the court the men seemed to think there was nothing at all wrong with what he had said.
“How can he say that?” Frances Sancho said. Mr Furman looked just as furious.
Then Lord Mansfield, our man, got up and reminded the court that the captain’s log – his diary – was missing.
“When the ship docked at Black River, Jamaica, it was found that over four hundred gallons of fresh drinking water was on board. Enough for every member of the crew and cargo,” he said. I wanted to cheer. Here at last was someone fighting for us. But then he went on. “Whether this is a case of right or wrong is not at stake here.”
I could not believe it! How could anybody think that this wasn’t about right and wrong! Everyone in the gallery sat up, stiff and silent.
“This is merely a case of goods and chattels, as the Solicitor General says,” said Lord Mansfield. “This is merely to discover whether the insurance company should pay out to the Zong’s owners.”
I looked at Frances. Her eyes blazed and I saw Mr Furman squeeze her hand to try and calm her even though I thought he was fit to explode with fury too, as his teeth were set hard. Mr Equiano sighed. I heard him try to explain: “This is a long game we are playing here.” But I had stopped listening.
One grey wig droned on after another, and another. Mr Kelsall said his piece, his voice was just as sad as I remembered. He took off his hat and ran the brim through his hands. I hoped the judge would feel as sorry for him as I did. He did not speak well and the Solicitor General made him out to be a fool who had been dismissed by the captain and so sought to make out that Collingwood was in the wrong.
Then Lord Mansfield summed up. Mr Furman took Frances’s hand and the whole gallery strained to listen. I barely heard the verdict. I was concentrating so hard on watching Mr Kelsall, to keep an eye on where he went. But when the cheer went up from the gallery, I knew that Lord Mansfield had made the decision against the ship owners. No insurance would be paid. But there was to be no punishment either. I didn’t see why this was such a great cause for celebration, but Mr Sharp was thrilled.
“The way is open now! I will bring a murder case against those ship owners, you wait and see!” he said, clapping Equiano on the back. “There will be justice.”
“And I hope I see the day,” Mr Equiano said, “when black men and women will no longer be property!”
Then the men started talking about liberty and freedom. Mr Furman and Miss Sancho were conversing, heads close together. I thought of Henry and my own liberty – I had to get out of the city.
Quietly, I made my way down the wooden stairs to find Mr Kelsall. Down in the court, it was a crush. Men and women streamed out of the hall. I was swept up in the crowd, struggling against the tide of people as I was pushed into the square to Westminster Bridge. Finally, I managed to weave out of the chaos, and caught my breath. By the time I had got back to the hall, the crowd had thinned. I saw Lord Mansfield, without his red robe, step into a waiting Sedan Chair, and the two chairmen carry him off.
By the door of the court a boy my own age, but lighter skinned, was singing a song about never working again. He wore a suit of clothes made of silver brocade, slightly less showy than the one Missis Palmer would have made me wear. He also had a silver collar around his neck, like that of a dog only bigger. I tried not to stare.
He stopped. “You on the lam?”
I shrugged. I had no idea what he meant.
The boy went on. “I am Mr Percy’s pageboy at Hanover Square, well the Mistress Percy’s, in all fact.”
I did not know what to say. Was he proud of his enslavement? I ignored him and looked around for Mr Kelsall. I was beginning to worry I might have missed him already. Then a note of fear crept into my thoughts. What if I couldn’t even find Mr Furman? Or the Sanchos? What if I was lost again?
“The Percys aren’t so bad,” the silver-suited boy went on. “I wait at tables and walk in front of my lady’s chair.”
I was still looking around and he tugged at my sleeve. “Hey! Who owns you, or are you free as the air?”
“Me? Mr Barratt, only I do not know the address,” I said without thinking. I looked at him and swallowed. I should have kept my mouth shut. Could I trust him just because we shared the same skin colour?
“Are you lost then? If you need anything, just ask. I am always ready –” he bowed a little – “to help a brother.”
I hesitated. He smiled a friendly smile.
“Do you know Shadwell?” I began, but then relief flooded me because I spotted the face I was looking for, standing in the street a few metres away.
“Mr Kelsall!” I shouted out. I mumbled an ‘excuse me’ to the silver boy and ran towards Mr Kelsall waving. I shouted again. “Mr Kelsall! It’s me, Nathaniel. Nathaniel Barratt!”
The man turned, he met my eye, and as he did so someone grabbed me from behind. It was the man I’d seen inside the hall, the massive mountain-sized man who’d been staring at me. He gathered me up as easily as if I were a piece of cloth. My arms were pinned to my sides and the force of the grip was so strong that I thought my bones would snap in two.
“Let go, sir!” My legs were off the ground. The man threw me into the back of a wagon and before I could jump out, he tied my hands behind my back.
“That’s the one.” The boy in the silver suit nodded. “He belongs to the Barratts, Mr Gemson, like you thought. He told me himself.”
The silver-clothed boy put out his hand. “I’ll take my finder’s fee now, thank you.”
The man mountain dropped some coins into his hand. The boy turned and walked away before I could curse him. I looked around wildly for Mr Furman or anyone I knew, but the wagon jolted forward and I fell face down into the bottom of the cart. I was free no longer.