I had never in my life been outside the estate before. Now, perched up beside Mr. Foster, I felt almost afraid to look about me. Keeping my eyes down, I glanced to one side; there was grass growing beside the dusty road. It was the same on the other side, too. Rather timidly, I raised my head but saw only the road stretching in front, bordered by the grass and here and there a few trees. In one of these a mockingbird was singing.
In the distance I saw a group of houses. They didn’t look like any kind of building on the estate. For one thing, all the windows I could see had glass in them; one flashed in my eyes and then, as we moved on, another. A door opened and out came a man — a white man – who stood still for some moments, looking up at the clouds in the sky. Then he walked down to the road and turned in our direction. He was wearing a sunhat and carrying a tool-bag on a strap over his shoulder. As he drew nearer he stared at Mr. Foster and myself sitting side by side. His expression was unmistakably hostile. I felt nervous and looked down to avoid meeting his eyes. Foster wished him a good morning. He did not reply, but passed us in silence.
All that morning we jogged easily along, past cornfields, cottages and woodland. We met with few fellow-travellers and stopped only to rest the horse and let it drink from any convenient creek along the way. Once we came upon a gang of blacks who were stripping the branches from felled trees and burning them on a bonfire beside the road. Our horse fidgeted and refused to go near the crackling and the smoke drifting into its eyes. Lacking all experience, I felt uneasy, trying to lead it forwards; however, one of the workmen, with a friendly grin to me and a few respectful words of greeting to Foster, took the bridle and, speaking quietly and reassuringly to the horse, at length succeeded in coaxing it past the fire. Although I had occasionally seen horses at work on the estate, I had never seen anything like this before, and thought it well worth the penny that Mr. Foster gave the man.
It must have been a good two hours into the afternoon before Mr. Foster said it was time for a halt and a meal. He went on to explain to me that according to the strict rule in American society, he and I would have to separate to eat and drink. Being used to this rule on the estate — where only house-slaves ever saw white men sitting down to a meal — I said I’d be happy to do whatever he wished. When we reached a tavern in the next village, he brought me out some bread and cheese, two apples and a pot of beer before disappearing indoors for his own victuals.
While he was gone and I was wolfing down the bread and cheese, three or four black lads of about my own age came drifting down the street and stopped to talk to me. When I told them I was travelling with my white master, they naturally asked where we were going. When I told them that my master was an Englishman and that we were going to sail to England in a ship, they were visibly impressed. One of them said he’d never heard of England and where was it? I told him that I didn’t know any more than he did, but my master was a minister and actually lived in England. “So you nebber been dere,” said another of them. “Where he get you, man, where you from?”
I told him my master had taken me away from a tobacco plantation. He said that was lucky for me: tobacco plantations were terrible places, he’d heard, where a slave could die of the work in seven years or less. I told them about Jeckzor, whipped to death by a white overseer for helping a poor woman in labour. At this one of the boys, who had not so far spoken, said that black people weren’t going to submit to this kind of cruelty forever. One day they’d rise up and put the brutal white masters to death. Why didn’t I join them, instead of cringing and grovelling before white men for a few handfuls of food a day? This stung me, and I began to tell them how I’d killed Flikka for what he was trying to do to my dearest Doth.
In the middle of this, out came Reverend Foster, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hallo, lads,” he greeted them amiably. “Been having a chat with my friend Daniel? Why don’t you come to England with us? Black people get better treatment in England, you know.”
At this one or two of them grinned sheepishly: ‘said I’d told them it was far off across the sea. Their parents wouldn’t like them to run away. Anyway, the white men, for whom they did night work, would be sure to catch them; they had horses and big dogs.
Foster gave them a farthing apiece, wished them luck and said that now he and I had to be getting along. They trotted beside us for a little while, calling out farewells and good wishes. I felt I was luckier than they were, and this added a few sparks to my self-confidence. If I had only known, they were premature.
Later that afternoon the road led through several miles of woodland. We were proceeding at an easy jogtrot when suddenly two rough-looking men, both carrying guns over their shoulders, strode out from among the trees and stood facing us in the middle of the road. Naturally, Foster pulled up. Before he could speak, the older of the two men levelled his gun at me and shouted, “You goddamn two-bit nigger, d’you want me to blow your black balls off right where you’re sitting?”
As Mr. Foster began to speak, the man shouted, “Shut your fucking mouth, nigger-lover!” And then to me, as he pointed at the road, “Get down outa there, sharper than shit, unless you want a taste of lead.”
Terrified, I leapt into the road, falling painfully on my knees, and remained crouching.
“Stand up! Come here!”
I took two hesitant steps forward. “Fucking quicker than that!” he yelled. “Run, blast you!”
Hardly knowing what I was doing, I stumbled forward and stood in front of him.
“It’s not healthy for a nigger-boy to sit next to a white man,” he said. “Know why, do ya?” and as I answered nothing, “Well, speak up, do you, hey?”
“No, no, sir.” I gasped breathlessly.
“Why,” he said, “he gets wet.” And thereupon he opened his breeches and pissed over me, gripping my shoulder to hold me still. After a few moments his companion copied him.
Foster said never a word, but only cowered in his seat as they finished and turned towards him. They stared at him silently for a while, as though to satisfy themselves that he had nothing to say. At length the older man said, “Best not stay here, nigger-lover. It ain’t the best spot. Drive on!”
Foster opened his mouth. “But — but —”
“Drive on, preacher-man, I said!” And he brandished his gun.
Foster paused a moment, then took up the reins, joggled them up and down along the horse’s back and clicked his tongue, at which it started forward. The two men turned and watched as the distance grew between Foster and themselves. I had never felt so frightened in my life, not even when I had lain at the feet of Henderson.
Suddenly, when Foster had gone perhaps a hundred yards, the younger man, going behind me where I stood, gave me a tremendous kick and shouted “Run, nigger! Run all the way to hell, damn you!”
Foster, hearing him, turned his head and stopped. As I caught up, he said, “Perhaps you’d better sit at the back, Daniel.”
I could scarcely draw my breath. Sobbing uncontrollably, I knelt in the cart, clutching the rail for support. At length Foster said, “Well, it’s over now. I’m sorry, Daniel. I’m very sorry.”
I made some reply and we drove on in silence.
Soon I saw that we were nearing a town — after all these years its name escapes me — and Foster said we would stay there for the night and go on in the morning to the port, where we were sure to find a ship going to England. I asked him what he meant to do with our “horse and cart”, and he replied that it would be easy to sell, as long as we didn’t ask too much.
We never spoke, then or later, of what had happened in the wood.
Foster arranged our night’s lodging with no trouble at all; the small hotel where we enquired had separate (and cheaper) arrangements for black servants — grooms, drivers and so on. As luck would have it, I saw an old pair of trousers lying on the floor in the black servants’ dormitory, and was glad enough to change them for my own.
As soon as he had seen and approved his quarters, Foster told me that what he meant to do now was something he felt sure would agree with me very well. He wanted me, he said, to do him credit when we found our ship, met the captain and so on; and he was going to buy me a new suit of clothes, a couple of shirts, a good, thick seagoing jersey, a pair of stout shoes and woollen stockings to go with them.
Naturally, I was overcome by this generosity. I began to feel better at once and could hardly find words to thank him. He replied that it was for his benefit as much as mine. It wouldn’t look well tomorrow if his servant were wearing dirty old clothes. I told him I’d never worn shoes or stockings in my life and he said that at that rate we could think about them later, when we’d got to England.
It became an exciting and enjoyable afternoon, the only drawback being that I was quite unused to wearing clothes like these; and I felt odd in them. The tailor, however, assured me that they were a very good fit, and that I would soon get used to them. He suggested that I should go outside and stroll up the street and back. (My master was a minister, so he knew we were trustworthy, he said.)
When I got outside, I was sure that I must look as odd as I felt. But my timidity vanished as I walked on amongst both black and white people, who were plainly indifferent to my appearance, although one stout white man, striding along, deliberately jostled me into the gutter. All the same, I was finally convinced when I met two young black girls who were idling along, looking in the shop windows. Both of them looked at me with obvious admiration, and when I said “Good afternoon”, they broke into happy smiles but could find no reply. I returned to the tailor and told him he had persuaded me. Foster paid him in cash and he called his boy to carry the parcel to our hotel.
The following morning, I dressed in my new clothes and as soon as Foster and I had finished our respective breakfasts, he tipped the ostler to bring our “horse and cart” from the stables, and off we set for the port and the sea.
I had formed no mental picture of “the sea”, and as Foster pulled up at the top of the hill overlooking the harbour, I was fairly trembling with excitement. Below us lay the town, with its roofs and streets. Its further edge was made up of anchored vessels large and small; and beyond lay the sea.
As I sat staring at the expanse of blue water shining under the morning sun, I realised that apparently it had no further edge. The sky met the sea. And beyond that? Presumably more sea, more sky. Then my eye fell upon a moving object coming towards us, floating on the water, and men standing on it. Why didn’t it sink? And we, Foster and I, were intending to travel on a floating thing like that, all the way to England, wherever that might be.
Foster must have read my thoughts. “You needn’t be afraid, Daniel,” he said. “You’ll be quite safe. Ships really do float. And they go along, too, with the wind in their sails to drive them. We’ll go down and make their further acquaintance.”
He got out and fitted an iron shoe to one of the wheels, explaining that this would slow us down and make the descent easier for the horse. Then we slithered down the rather steep hill and having arrived at the foot, pulled up for a rest while Foster explained to me why ships didn’t sink. We drove on, stopped at the first inn we came to and paid them to put up our “horse and cart” and take care of our luggage (such as it was) until we came back for our midday dinner.
“Where are we going now?” I asked, as we crossed the road to the seaward side.
“To find our ship,” replied Foster. “The first thing we’ll do is pay a visit to the harbour-master and see whether he can give us any useful advice.”
The harbour-master’s office, we were told, was about half a mile along the seafront. Foster said there was plenty of time, and we dawdled beside the moored boats and ships, while I asked scores of questions and Foster answered them as well as he could. Once we stopped to watch while several loads of crates and heavy boxes were winched across to the open hold of a ship and lowered down. I admired the skill and confidence of the man working the crane.
“Well, he gets plenty of practice,” replied Foster. “It’s highly-skilled work, of course, and no doubt he’s paid accordingly. If he accidentally let one of those crates drop on a man’s head, he’d be in trouble.”
“So would the man, I expect,” I answered. “Does it ever happen?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Foster. “But I don’t know much about matters of that sort.”
We didn’t have to wait long at the harbour-master’s office, where there were two or three young clerks on duty, all with various papers piled up in front of them. Foster explained that we were bound for England, and if possible would like to travel as passengers on some merchant ship. We would, of course, pay the captain accordingly; we weren’t out to drive a bargain, and we didn’t mind how long the crossing took.
The young man conferred with one of his colleagues. As he did so he nodded in our direction, and I formed the impression that once again Foster’s being a minister was telling in our favour. At length he returned and said that he could tell us of something suitable, although of course we would have to work out the terms with the captain. His name was Captain Longside, and he was well known to the harbour-master as an honest man and a thoroughly reliable sailor. His ship was a brig, the Robin. Hood, lying at Berth 23. If we were going to see him, we should tell him that we had seen himself, Mr. Dearing, and that he had recommended us.
Money changed hands, but I didn’t look to see how much.
Berth 23 turned out to be only a short walk away, and we stopped to admire the Robin Hood before looking for Captain Longside. Knowing nothing whatever about ships, I thought she looked very attractive. Her decks were clean and she had a neat, trim appearance that made me want to sail away on board her as soon as we could.
A gangplank was in place and Mr. Foster went on board, while I followed two or three yards behind, at what I hoped was a properly respectful distance. We had hardly stepped down onto the deck before a man in overalls came up and asked our business. Mr. Foster said that if it was convenient he would like to have a word with the captain; whereupon, the man told us to wait while he went to see whether the captain was on board. After a short time another man appeared who, from his clean clothes and air of authority, I guessed could only be the captain. He wore a peaked cap, was smoking a pipe and had about him a certain look of scepticism, as of a man not much given to smiling. As he came up to us he did not offer his hand to Foster, and the way he glanced at me made me move still further off.
He spent a considerable time in conversation with Foster and I could see that he was asking questions. More than once Foster shook his head emphatically.
Finally, he turned and beckoned to me to join them. I ran up but kept my eyes on the ground.
“What’s your name?” asked the captain.
“Daniel, sir.”
“How old are you?”
I had never been at all sure about this, but I replied with an age that I thought must be about right.
“Do you want to go to England? Won’t you be leaving a lot behind?”
“No, sir. I’m well off as a servant to Mr. Foster.”
We followed the Captain down a companion ladder to the lower deck, where he opened the door of a cabin containing two bunks.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Foster. “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable. Shall I pay you now?”
The Captain replied with a nod, and Foster followed him (as I guessed) to his office. Their business was soon done, and the two of us went ashore for dinner.
When we came back that evening, there was a note in our cabin from the Captain, asking Foster to dine with the mate and himself, and adding that he was sure I would be well looked after in the fo’c’s’le by Mr. Miles, the Bo’sun.
I unpacked and stowed our stuff as Foster directed. When everything had been done to his satisfaction, he washed his hands, combed his hair and left to join his hosts.
Sitting alone in the cabin, the excitement that I had hitherto felt at the prospect of sailing to England drained out of me and I began to think realistically of what I was leaving behind. While it was true that Foster had saved me from being sold by Mr. Reynolds into slavery in some remote place I did not know, the melancholy truth remained that I was now to be taken away from Doth, from my family and the estate, the only place familiar to me, the only place I had ever dwelt. The future was unknown and I felt ill-equipped to encounter it. I was about to be setting off to a distant country, and perhaps would never return to America. Of England I knew nothing, but I had no alternative. Like waves breaking over me, things were happening now over which I had no control.
After a depressing half hour’s meditation, I followed Foster’s suggestion and made my way forward into the fo’c’s’le, where I found the Bo’sun and four or five of the crew. When I explained that I was servant to Mr. Foster, who was sailing to England on the ship, Mr. Miles told me to sit down, make myself at home and have a drink. He was a big, burly man with a shock of black hair and rolled-up sleeves showing hairy forearms. The drink was whisky, which I had never tasted in my life. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could drink it for pleasure.
“There’s fifteen crew altogether,” said Miles. “Eight or nine of us are English, sailed with the ship quite a few times. The rest have signed on just for this trip. They’re new boys, like yourself.”
This seemed a reasonably good start, and I kept silent and listened to the conversation, which seemed to be largely about horses. The remainder of the crew arrived in the course of the evening, four or five together and the rest one by one. One of them was black, and we caught each other’s eyes and smiled as he passed me.
Supper came in: an excellent beef stew, followed by treacle tart. But here I was embarrassed: everyone except me had his own knife, fork and spoon. The cook lent me a set out of the galley, but I felt silly and out of countenance, especially when I realised that I wouldn’t be able to buy a set until we reached England.
“Never been to sea before?” someone asked, and when I admitted it and explained that I was no sailor but Mr. Foster’s servant, he went on “Then you’ll find there’s a lot to learn, Darkie.”
Miles told the crew that we were to sail with the tide at three o’clock that morning. I would have liked to watch us sail away, but thought I might only be in the way, and decided to go on making myself as unobtrusive as possible. I went back to our cabin and, finding Foster not yet returned, went to bed and soon fell asleep.
When I woke next morning, I was immediately conscious of the movement of the ship. She was rolling from side to side and it cost me an effort to stagger forward to the fo’c’s’le, where the kindly cook gave me a substantial breakfast.
Having eaten, I went up on deck. It was a fine day, the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky. It excited me to see the spread sails and the ship’s white wake, and to look back at the town we had left growing smaller and smaller in the distance. I had left Foster asleep, but when I went back to our cabin I found him dressing and plainly in good spirits. While he went off to breakfast, I made the beds, swept the floor and generally tidied up.
It was quite some time before he reappeared. I had stayed in the cabin in case he might want me for anything else. However, he only complimented me on what I had done, and said he was now going to teach me what he called “one or two things I needed to know”.
We began with “telling the time”, which I found easy enough once I had got the hang of it. Foster said I was a quick learner, and we went on to reading. The alphabet I found much harder, although Foster was patient and seemed positively to enjoy explaining the letters and sounds as many times as I asked. When I spelt out “c”, “at”, “cat”, he clapped his hands, said I was beginning very well and that that would do for one day. He put an arm round my shoulders, pressed me to himself for a moment and planted a quick kiss on my forehead. I thanked him for the trouble he’d taken and, as he settled himself with a book, asked permission to go back on deck.
For some time I stood watching the sailor at the wheel. I could grasp that there must be a connection between the binnacle and the slight movements of his hands, but I couldn’t understand why the binnacle seemed to play so large a part in the business of steering. And again, how did the ship respond to the wheel? What was the secret of steering? I didn’t dare to ask questions, not even when the sailor turned his head and gave me a friendly wink.
I felt a tug on my sleeve and, turning, found the young black sailor beside me.
“How are you getting on?” he asked. I told him I thought I was settling in quite comfortably. I asked him several of my questions about the ship, and in the light of his replies I began to understand a good deal.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Daniel,” I replied. “And yours?”
“Bernard Watney. But folks mostly call me ‘Snowball’.”
“Do you mind that?”
“Oh, no. It’s friendly, after all.”
“Are you English? Do you come from England?”
“Well, I was born there. But when I was seventeen I ran away to sea and I’ve been a sailor ever since; here, there and everywhere.”
“No wife? No children?”
“Lord, no. They’d only cost money and get in the way. I’m hoping to be taken on as first mate before much longer. I’ve served with several captains I reckon might not be sorry to take me on as mate.”
“Does it hinder you, being black?”
“Not at sea it doesn’t. That’s partly why I’ve stuck to the sea. America’s not a good place to be black, you know.”
“What about England?”
“It’s patchy, really, is England. There’s some good places and some bad. But tell me about yourself. Anyone can see you’re no sailor; so what are you?”
“I’m a slave. A ‘nigger’.”
“You mean, born a slave?”
“And grew up a slave.” I told him about Massa Reynolds’s estate, and about the slave village and the field work. Then I told him about Missus Kathy and our “abode”. I told him about Henderson and how he murdered Jeckzor. And finally I told him about how I had killed Flikka, and come away with the Reverend Foster, to go with him to England.
“And do you like that idea?”
“Yes, I think I do. Foster’s been kind to me. If I hadn’t become his servant, I’d have been sold a slave.”
Bernard was silent. He seemed to be deliberating with himself whether to speak again. At length he asked, “Had you ever seen Mr. Foster before?”
“How could I? I told you, I’d never been outside the plantation in my life.”
He said no more, but I felt curious. “How d’you mean? I couldn’t have seen him before, could I?”
Hesitantly, he replied, “I – I’ve seen him: I’ve seen him before.”
“What? How could you have? In England, do you mean?”
“Yes. In England.”
“But where, for goodness sake?”
After another pause, he asked, “Are you sure you want to know?”
I frowned in perplexity. “Well, yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I want to know? Where have you seen him before?”
“I’ve seen him – er – in prison.”
“You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, by any chance?”
“No, Daniel, I’m not. I’ve seen him before, in England, when we were both in prison, in a town called Winchester. But we didn’t meet then, didn’t know each other.”
I said nothing, but waited.
“When I was sixteen, I was sent to prison for three months, for stealing from shops. That was why, when I came out, I ran away to sea.”
“And you say Foster was there too?”
“Yes, he was. I was in a group of young, short-sentence prisoners. Our lot were taken out to work separately. Sometimes we had to wait in the courtyard until the two prison guards who took us out were ready; and that’s where I saw Foster more than once, in another gang. I’d know him again anywhere.”
“Bernard, are you quite sure? I mean, if you had the least doubt, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“I can’t be in any doubt at all. We never spoke to each other, but more than once I was near enough to hear his voice; that’s how I was sure when I heard it here, on the ship. When I felt certain it must be him, I hung about, pretending to be busy with a rope, while he was talking to the Bo’sun on deck.”
“Do you know what he was sent to prison for?”
“No. But of course you’ll realise it wouldn’t be any good to bring it up now. He’s done his time and now he’s as free as we are. But if he’s really a clergyman, then I’m St. Peter.”
“What do you think I ought to do? Or ought I to do nothing?”
“Daniel, if I were you, I’d avoid arousing the least suspicion – on his part, I mean — until we’re paid off at Bristol; and then I’d find a way to leave him — some way, any way.”
“But I’ve got no work in England. I don’t know anyone; and I don’t know the country at all.”
“Well, I can’t be of any help to you there, because I mean to sign on with another ship as soon as I can. But if you can’t come up with something, you’re not the lad I took you for. Let’s go and have dinner.”
That afternoon I had another reading lesson with Foster. Later, I went back to the fo’c’s’le, where I watched two of the crew playing chess. One of them good-naturedly offered to teach me and by the time he had to go on duty I had become altogether taken with the game.
That same evening I had an accident. I still wasn’t entirely used to the movement of the ship; and crossing the deck I slipped and fell, getting a blow on the head. Mr. Miles happened to be nearby and saw me fall. He came over at once, pulled me up and supported me while I did my best to collect my wits.
“That was a nasty bang, lad,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Not too good, sir, but I suppose it’ll pass off.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d go and lie down for a bit. If you don’t feel like coming along to supper, I’ll ask Cookie to bring you something in your bunk; a drop of brandy wouldn’t hurt you, either. You just hop into bed, now, and I’ll bring you a tot.”
His sympathy made me feel better, but I was shocked and dizzy, and glad of his arm back to the cabin. Foster wasn’t there, and the kindly Bo’sun, having brought the brandy, made me drink it off neat. With his great topknot of hair and his hirsute arms, he rather resembled some large, hulking animal tending its offspring. He saw me between the blankets and tucked me in, so that I wondered whether he hadn’t got some children of his own back home.
“Now you just shut your eyes and have a good sleep, young fellow,” he said as he left me.
And sleep I did, almost at once. The cook, rather than disturb me, must have come and gone. When I woke, I found Foster kneeling on the floor beside my bunk. He was stroking my forehead and then, seeing that I was awake, leaned over and kissed me on the lips. As I turned my head away, he said “Oh, my darling, dear boy Daniel, we both know now, don’t we, our true feelings for each other? I love you with all my heart.”
I felt bewildered, and unable to make sense of what he was saying.
“Oh, my sweetest, most precious lad,” he went on. “You’re all the world to me, but you must have known that already. Known that I love you very dearly.” He slid one hand beneath my averted head, turned it to face him and kissed my mouth again. His hand prevented me from turning my lips away, and I felt his tongue thrusting between them. Then, groping, he pushed his other hand down beneath the blankets.
As I tried to struggle in the narrow bunk, everything fell into place: our evening walks down to the stream; his asking Reynolds to let him take me away; his lavish expenditure on smart clothes for me; his bargaining with Captain Longside for a single cabin for the two of us. And — ah, yes! — waiting to show what he really wanted until we were out at sea, bound for England, with no more than twenty-five other people aboard, none of whom would be likely to pay much attention to anything a black nigger boy might say. For what, might one guess, had Foster been sent to prison? And why did it suit him now to pretend to be a clergyman?
All this passed through my mind as I gave in to what he was doing. If I were to take a stand against him, not only would it get me nowhere on board the Robin Hood, but once we were ashore I would have destroyed any chance I could expect of help or support from him – and there would be nobody else to turn to.
Foster was so sharp set on what he wanted that he evidently did not perceive that he was getting no response from me. It didn’t take him long to gratify himself and then, after a few more perfunctory endearments and caresses, to go to his own bunk and sleep.
I lay awake, partly because my head was throbbing and painful, and partly because I needed to think. After much pondering, I decided that I would not only have to accede to Foster’s wishes, but actually to convince him that I felt as he did. At all costs, I must retain his friendship and willingness to help me when we had landed. But how to part from him when the time came? That would have to remain a matter of opportunity.
In the morning I felt feverish and told Foster that I thought it best to stay in my bunk for the time being. The Bos’un, when he looked in, said he would send Snowball along with some bread and a bowl of soup. The soup made me feel better, but Snowball, seeing that I was still poorly, said he would leave me to rest and come back in the afternoon.
The last days of the voyage remain among my worst memories. Doing the best I could to convince Foster that I felt for him as he did for me was a continual strain, of which gratifying his lust was the most disgusting part. It was fortunate for me that, despite his continual protestations of love, his natural disposition, (of which I believe he was quite unaware) was altogether selfish: he really thought that what he did was as enjoyable for me as for himself.
I don’t think it ever occurred to him that if I felt as he did, I would want to play a more active part. My passivity suited him and he looked no further. For me each time seemed more repellent than the last, and the thought that I was going to have to accompany him when we landed often brought me close to despair; to thinking that I would never be able to get away from him. For I had no money and where could I go?
There was one circumstance that, I thought, offered some vague grounds for hope. This was the discovery that Foster was, to use a plain word, stupid. He was not ignorant: I myself had ignorance enough for twenty boys. No; what he revealed, as we talked, was a kind of slow-minded obtuseness, an inability to perceive that one thing followed from another. One day, for instance, when Snowball had remarked casually, in the course of conversation, that the world took twenty-four hours to revolve on its axis, it became plain that for Foster this had no connection with the sun or the time of day, although he himself had taught me to tell the time by the clock. Nor had it ever occurred to him that times by the sun differ simultaneously in various parts of the world. Another day he showed that he had never realised that sound takes time to travel and that this is demonstrable.
Both Snowball and I were always careful to avoid any insistence or argument with him. Our toleration, while not, of course, making his company more pleasant, allowed me to hope that in some way or other his muddy mind might lessen the difficulty of escape if opportunity offered.
About six o’clock on a fine morning we duly sailed into harbour at Bristol and moored the ship at a quay convenient for unloading. The Captain went ashore to report at the harbourmaster’s office and to collect the money to pay off the crew. When he returned, they gathered on deck and he paid them one by one, sitting at a chair and table brought from his office.
Once paid, they were free to go ashore and most did so immediately. The Bo’sun, however, remained on deck, and the Captain asked Foster, Snowball and myself to do the same. Foster showed some impatience at this, and finally asked the Captain whether he and I were not now free to go. The Captain did not answer him but, turning to me, said, “Daniel, you are under arrest. Go below to my cabin and wait for me there.”
Before I could say a word, Foster broke out angrily, “What do you mean, Captain, by saying Daniel’s under arrest? What for? And by what authority are you acting?”
The Captain replied that aboard his ship he had power of arrest. He then turned to the Bo’sun and said, “Mr. Miles, please take Daniel and Watney below to my cabin and wait with them until I join you.”
All three of us, of course, obeyed him, so that I did not hear what Foster said next. As we entered the cabin, Snowball turned to me with a broad smile. I saw nothing to smile at, and was trembling with apprehension when Miles put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Daniel. You’re not in trouble, so calm down.”
He, too, was smiling, so I did my best to do as he said. We had not long to wait until the Captain joined us. His first words were, “Mr. Foster is waiting on deck, unless he’s gone ashore, which he’s free to do if he wishes.” Then, looking at me, he said, “Daniel, you’re not under arrest. Just keep quiet and listen. Watney, tell Mr. Miles and Daniel what you told me yesterday.”
“Well, sir,” answered Snowball “during the crossing I became friendly with Daniel, and he told me that Mr. Foster had begun treating him in a way he didn’t like; a dirty way, sir. He’d been using him, sir, for, well for —”
“Buggery?” said the Captain.
“Yes, sir, that and — and, well, messing about with him and making him do nasty things and that.”
“Did Daniel tell you he didn’t like it?”
“Yes, sir, he did. But he said he was afraid to tell you or Mr. Miles, because he thought you wouldn’t — well, wouldn’t want to listen to him.”
“And you thought the same, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Well, you see, sir, I’ve had some experience, and I know that many captains and bo’suns think that such things are no business of theirs; that they’re quite normal among sailors on ships at sea. And then what with Mr. Foster being white, sir, and me and Daniel being black —”
“You changed your mind, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“It was when Daniel told me that Mr. Foster meant to keep him with him, sir, after we were ashore, and he didn’t want to stay with Mr. Foster, but he had no money and no work and he didn’t know England at all, and he had no friends he could go to, so he couldn’t run away from Mr. Foster.”
“Daniel, is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And so, Watney, you decided to tell me after all?”
“Yes, sir. You and Mr. Miles, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Miles, knowing you and your moral principles as I do, you no doubt feel that you want to help Daniel, get him away from Foster and perhaps find him a roof over his head and a job to go to?”
“Yes, Captain, sir,” said Miles.
“He behaved well on the voyage?”
“Yes, sir; he did. All the lads took a liking to him. No one interfered with him, though, not like Mr. Foster.”
“Well, please call Mr. Foster in.”
When Foster came in, the Captain said, “Now, Mr. Foster, before you say anything, just listen to me. First, Daniel doesn’t want to stay with you. He wants to leave you. Mr. Miles and I think that by law he’s free to do so.”
“But, sir,” broke in Foster, “he is my protégé.”
“He is not a slave. Not in this country. He is free to leave you. Where he decides to go is no business of yours.”
“But, sir–”
The Captain held up his hand. “We also know that during the recent crossing, you have abused him in filthy ways. You buggered him several times. That is against the law.”
“Sir–”
“We also know that you have been in prison in Winchester. We don’t know for what, but that will be on record. We also very much doubt whether you are in holy orders. Now, have you anything to say to us?”
“I — er — I shall take you to law, Captain. You will hear from my lawyer in due course.”
“My name and address are written on this piece of paper,” said the Captain. “Now take your luggage and leave the ship.”
I disembarked from the Robin Hood in the company of Mr. Miles. When I tried to thank him for all he had done to help me, he cut me short, saying that he had been only too glad to show up Foster for what he was and to get me away from him.
“He’s a villain, sure enough,” he said. “We could probably get him put back in prison if we wanted, only ‘twould be too much trouble. He’ll likely get himself back there in time.”
The docks were crowded, but no one seemed to think it unusual to see a black lad walking side by side with a brawny white man. There were several black men working in the gangs among the piled crates and roped bundles, none of whom bothered to take the least notice of me as I carried one of Mr. Miles’s bags, accepted a quid of his tobacco, spat it out on the stones and chattered with him.
“You’ve nowhere in particular to go, have you, Daniel?” he asked me; and when I replied that that was so, he went on, “Well, you’d better come home with me for the time being. I’ve got a notion I may be able to help you and perhaps myself at the same time. Can you keep a secret?”
“Oh, yes, yes, sir,” I replied, agog with expectation.
“So can I,” he chuckled and vouchsafed nothing more as we left the docks and came out into the bustle of the workaday city.
Bristol, capital of the west of England, the only big town to which I had ever been, overwhelmed me with its noise, and I could only stare about and holler one question after another as we made our way up the street, past the shops and counting houses, half-deafened by the hooves and wheels thundering over the cobbles. We stopped at a tavern for bread and cheese and beer, and again no one seemed to think it unusual that we sat down together. I was the only one surprised. I thought it best to stop bothering the good bo’sun with more questions, and kept quiet as he finished his quart and read the newspaper he had bought from a lad at the door.
“It’s good to be back home,” said he, as he folded it up and put it in his pocket. “There’s nothing better than English draught beer. You’ll soon acquire a taste for it, my boy.”
I smiled and nodded, and after a pause he went on, “You’ll be welcome to stay with us for a few days. We’ve a girl and two boys in the family. Jim’s the youngest. I guess you’re probably about the same age as him. Can you sleep on the floor?”
“Yes, of course I can, sir.”
“You’re like the Irishman was asked could he play the fiddle. ’Said he was pretty sure he could, but he couldn’t say for certain because he’d never tried.”
“I’m sure sleeping on the floor’s easier than playing the fiddle, sir.”
“How about mice?”
“Oh, I simply dote on mice, Mr. Miles. American mice, you know.”
‘“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself,” said he, grinning. “Well, let’s be on our way. The sooner we’re home the better. It’s a fair way out to Filton.”
We reached Filton and Mr. Miles’s home that afternoon. It was something like an abode, I thought, with its plot of smooth grass in front, its bright blue front door and pots of flowering geraniums in the windows. We went round to the open back door, where Mr. Miles whistled two or three notes which were evidently a personal signal, for his wife, almost crying with delight, came running out from the kitchen and clasped his huge bulk in her arms. I thought her a fine, handsome woman, but of course every woman looks her best when she’s brimming with happiness.
“Jack, oh darling Jack,” she kept saying, as she kissed him again and again. Although she took me in with a quick glance, it did nothing to interrupt her welcome, which continued for some while until Mr. Miles, kissing her hands and then holding her at arm’s length by the shoulders, said, “Tea, lass, tea.” Even then she paid me no particular attention as I followed the good bo’sun into the kitchen and stood by his chair as he sat down.
I realise now that she didn’t question her husband about me because she knew that he would tell her in his own good time: and over the first cup of tea he did just that, Foster he simply described as “a bad master”, going on to say that he didn’t care for the notion of putting me ashore with no money and nowhere to go. She nodded her agreement.
“I’ve got a bit of a notion about young Dan’l,” he said, “but it’ll keep for the time being. Where’s the children?”
“Ursula’s gone to see Ellen,” replied his wife, “and the boys have gone fishing. I take it Daniel will be staying with us until you’ve fixed him up? Have another cup of tea, Daniel, dear, and tell me about where you’ve come from.”
I think she didn’t say “about your home” in case I’d never had one. I felt shy and tongue-tied, but managed to tell her a little about my mother and Dorothy, and how sad we’d been to part when Mr. Reynolds had handed me over to Foster.
“I’ll write to your mother,” she said, “to tell her you’re safe and sound. I’ll send the letter to your Mr. Reynolds and ask him to see she gets it.”
I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of Mr. Reynolds being asked to pass a letter on to one of his slaves; but still, I thought, there was a chance that he might. Anyway, it was the only chance there was.
All this time I felt confused and bewildered at finding myself sitting with white people in these spotlessly clean surroundings, like nothing I had ever known in my life, and seeing on every side strange objects at whose use I could make no guess. Evidence of wealth beyond anything that I had ever imagined, they fairly nonplussed me. The fire, bright with flaming coals, seemed wonderful beyond belief; so did the painted china, the cushions on the chairs, and the curtains at the windows. They made me feel nervous. Mrs. Miles must have perceived my uneasiness, for she took my hand, saying, “Come along, Daniel; come out in the garden with me and look at the flowers.”
Even the garden, of course, was unlike any place that I had ever seen; and I still could not relax. There was a seat under a cherry tree, to which she led me. After we had sat there together for a little while, she said, “Now you stay here in the sun, my dear, while I go and see to one or two things, and I’ll be back quite soon.”
Left alone, I flung myself on the grass and shed tears of homesickness and anxiety. I lay prone, my face in my hands, sobbing.
I was still crying when I felt a hand on my back, while a voice said, “Come on, old chap: it can’t be that bad.”
Raising my head, I saw two white boys kneeling beside me, plainly flummoxed by my presence in their garden. They were both carrying rods and one of them had three fish on a string through the gills.
“Have you been took bad?” said the one who had spoken. “Come on, tell us what’s up.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “No, no,” I said. “I’m all right. Your father’s come home; he brought me with him. From America.”
At this they both jumped up and ran indoors, shouting “Dad!” I scrambled to my feet and was about to follow them when Mrs. Miles came out, took me by the hand and led me back indoors. She was so kind and reassuring that I soon cheered up.
I have always remembered that evening; sitting on the arm of Mr. Miles’s chair as he talked with the boys about where he had been and listened to all they had to tell him.
“You’ll take me with you next time, won’t you, Dad?” said Dermot, the older boy. “If you can take Daniel, you can take me.”
“Well, I think Daniel may do better to stay here in England,” replied Mr. Miles. “But when you’ve finished at school, my boy, if you’ve still a mind to it, you might come along and try whether the sea suits you.”
Some time later, Ursula returned, laughed with surprise and pleasure to see her father and (this I have never forgotten) bent forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek by way of welcome.
I remember walking down the street with Mr. Miles, who persuaded the butcher to unlock his shop and sell us a leg of mutton for supper. I remember stripping with the boys to wash under the pump. As they knelt by their beds to say their prayers, Jim put an arm round my shoulders.
“Look,” he said to me, “I can imagine how strange everything here must seem to you, but nothing – nothing at all – is going to hurt you, all right? We’re your friends.” I shared his bed and slept soundly.
Oh, how often, during the years that followed, did I long to find myself back at home with that good Christian family! Although I could not know it, in all my life to come – until now, that is – I was never better off nor better treated than by them.