by H D Coulter
“They are lucky to have found you.” Bea lifted her gaze from the fine silk threads and bobbins in her hands.
“I feel useful, and I enjoy teaching the girls, they remind me of when we were young.” Beth wrapped the woollen cloak over her shoulders and tied the ribbon.
“That seems like a lifetime ago.” Bea let out a small chuckle.
“Shall I keep a plate for you?” asked Sarah, seated next to Grace on the rug.
“Thank you, Sarah, but I should be back well before supper. I won’t be long, will I, my sweetheart?” Beth scooped Grace into her arms and swung her around, lighting up her face as they both descended into a fit of giggles. “We have so much now, and those girls have nothing, only the charity to supply teachers and funds. They deserve a chance in life, to know that women aren’t as powerless as we’re told.”
“Here, here!” Sarah and Bea called out together, lifting their arms up and smiling mischievously.
“You are right - and I’m proud of you,” remarked Bea sincerely.
Beth blushed at the compliment and handed Grace back to Sarah. “I had better be off.”
Once she had closed the front door behind her, Bea turned to Sarah and removed the lace stool from between her legs. “We better be off too; the meeting starts in thirty minutes. I’ll finish getting Grace ready, if you bring the pram round?”
“I will see you out front.”
Bea could hear Sarah descend the kitchen stairs. She patted Grace’s towel nappy -no need to change - and grabbed their woollen coats and hats and the knitted blanket.
Outside, the seasons were changing. The trees were awash in colour, the like of which she had never seen before, and though the air was getting cold, in the sun’s rays there still lingered a hint of warmth. Back in Ulverston, the seasons didn’t change like this, not with such clarity and brilliance. By now the English rain would set in before they would even see a chance of snow. Memories of stepping out into that familiar light drizzle that soaked into everything, and hung like a darkness over the day, and seeped into your bones. Last year she hadn’t noticed the changing of the seasons. She had spent the days watching her body transform and the confirmation of what that meant, and all that man had done to her. The difference a year can make, she thought with a sigh. Bea kicked the dry red leaves like a gleeful child as Sarah pushed the pram up the hill.
OUTSIDE, THEY COULD hear the minutes being called out as Bea grabbed hold of Grace and her favourite teething toy. They nodded their head to Mr Winston, who was chairing, as they snook into one of the back pews. Bea saw how Mr Winston smiled at Sarah, but also noted that she held her eyes on the floor.
“... and sales of ‘The Liberator’ has increased in the city, and further afield. Our voice is being heard and welcomed,” Mr Winston continued.
Bea reached out for Sarah’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Thank you – for letting me come again.”
“You belong here - as do I.” Sarah gave Bea’s hand a light pat before letting her go to clap at the close of Mr Winston’s address.
“now - stand with me, all, as we sing Go Down Moses.”
The song started low and slow, “When Israel was in Egypt’s land...,” but it took Bea by surprise when the congregation erupted in sound as they sang out: “Let my people go!”
“Oppressed so hard they could not stand,
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt’s land,
Tell old pharaoh to let my people go.”
Bea felt the pain in the people’s voices at the words. She gazed round towards Sarah; her eyes were closed, but her cheeks were wet. “Let my people go.” She pleaded.
“Oh, let us all from bondage flee.
Let my people go.
And let us all in Christ be free,
Let my people go!”
Bea allowed the pain, the fear and the sorrow all around her to sink in. Grace was no longer shifting in her arms in her attempts to dance, but lent her head against Bea’s chest, her mouth sucking intently on her teething toy. Bea wanted to place her arm around Sarah’s shoulders and tell her how sorry she was. In this alternative world, slavery should not exist. She knew, however, that Sarah would not accept such a gesture; she was intensely private, and though she could give comfort, but found it harder to receive it.
Once the song finished, everyone took their seats. Grace reached out to Sarah and without a second thought, Sarah took hold of Grace and held her close to her chest. Bea watched Grace comfort her friend, her chubby white fingers resting against Sarah’s dark honey tone skin; black, white, it did not matter. Only love mattered.
Then everyone settled themselves for the day’s talk. Each meeting that passed, Bea learnt of fresh horrors surrounding the slave trade, sometimes from letters, sometimes from a travelling speaker or a brave member of their group. She didn’t know yet how she could help fight against this injustice. First, she must learn who the enemy was.
“Today, we are joined by Mr Farlow, a Quaker, a business-owner, and orator, who discusses the particular horrors of the slave route, the Guinea trade, and how change is slowly but surely coming to our nation.” Mr Winston ended his introduction with a short round of applause, and gestured for an older man to join him at the podium. He was tall, thin, and remarkably pale-skinned, with a long white beard, and attired in a simple dark grey suit and a white tie. What stood out to Bea was his black broad-rimmed hat, unlike any she had seen before.
“Thank you, Mr Winston. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be here with you again. I would like to speak a little of the lesser known details of the Guinea trade routes, and elaborate on the progress to which my friend just alluded – to encourage you, to take faith because history is happening, right now, in our own time.”
Bea frowned a little, thinking she had heard of the ‘Guinea trade’ before; but where? First came his face, and then his hated name.
“..., and in fact, the British tried to claim the line as their own, from the Portuguese, thirty years ago. A few vessels dominated the stretch, led by notorious Captain Flint, Southerton, Hanley and Anderson.”
There it was, his name, that name. She recalled the morning at the harbour, almost two years since, when Joshua had told her a little of Hanley’s past, and of his violent upbringing on his father’s ship. She felt all the warmth drain out of her as she listened to Mr Farlow’s story. She looked over at the innocent Grace, who was sound asleep in Sarah’s arms. These stories were part of her heritage, a heritage that she would never know. She stared at the tiny details of Grace’s facial features, wondering if there was any part of Hanley in them at all. The roundness of her eyes, the arch of her chubby cheek bones, the curve of her lips. Thankfully, all she saw was herself, sound asleep. There was nothing of him, there couldn’t be any of him in her. The only father she would know was the man who loved her and cared for her every single day.
“Are you feeling alright?” Sarah muttered.
All Bea could do was nod and gesture towards the man without speaking, laying her hand reassuringly on Sarah’s arm.
“Portuguese government captured Upper Guinea hundreds of years ago and traded men, women and children to northern Brazil. The seaman I mention became infamous when the British captured the island of Bolama, off the East coast of Guinea. The castle there, was like so many others, fortified against other tribes that came intent on stealing their stock. The black people were contained in the dungeons, dark holes where there entered no light, with barely any food to eat, and visited only by those conquistadors selecting a woman to violate – all of which is still happening right this second, if only elsewhere.” He paused for a moment, and all Bea could think about was her own cell, the dungeon she had inhabited while awaiting trial at Lancaster, and the horror she felt both mind and body between its damp and senseless walls - how many others’ entire lives have comprised the same? Sarah or her parents? Mr Winston? Other black men and women sitting in t
his room, who she had passed by in the street on her way to buy candles or collect an order of silk? How many across this city, across the continent? She knew the feelings of worthlessness, and she knew pain, and though her experiences, she saw, were far removed from any soul born or bought into the ownership of another human being, she knew too of the difficulty in living without fear, even after finding freedom.
“The king of Guinea Bissau gained power, riches and land under the Portuguese trading in iron, steel, gold and gems for people - criminals or captured soldiers, or those who simply could not defend their communities from slavers’ raids. The Europeans took advantage of a market in human subjects that already existed in Africa, Ghana and now Guinea Bissau, but the white men were the ones who turned it into the monster it is today. From the ensuing battles came prisoners, and this meant even more slaves ripe for the taking. The brutality only increased under British rule. Traffickers even supplied guns to the indigenous tribes, but not enough to ever turn them against the slave ships.
These Captains traded on their names and their supply.
In 1807, when the British finally abolished the slave trade, their power over the ports fluctuated, as other countries laid claim to their former markets, with skirmishes springing up all along the slave coast. Without a single organisation taking responsibility for the disorder, the private slave ships became unmanageable. Southerton and Hanley’s vessels were the first to break away from the mainstream trading route, and sold their services to the highest bidder. Some of you here today have had first-hand knowledge of that industry, and my simple words cannot do justice to your sorrows.
Yet, still I am here to talk about the power of the British slave traders because, after twenty-five years of turning a blind eye to these privateer ships, the government is making definitive, terminal moves to abolish slavery in their empire.
What has changed? Namely this: that six months ago, the British government passed the reform bill, giving certain working men the right to vote. This in turn has meant more men in parliament, and more voices being heard. The British government is now putting a bill together to finally make the use of slaves illegal across the entire empire.”
Bea leaned into Grace and whispered into her ear, “your grand-papa made that happen.” Sarah overheard Bea’s words and gave her a questioning look. Bea replied with just a smile. The old gentleman continued.
“This is only the first step on a longer journey; a lot still needs to be addressed.
I would like, therefore, to end this brief address by reaffirming to you: it is our joint responsibility to speak up - to use our voices, our influences and our God-given humanist reason, to condemn this treatment, and these practices, and speak out, of equality and freedom for all peoples – the times are changing, and we will be heard. Thank you.” As Mr Farlow bowed to the congregation, they all stood up and clapped. Grace cried out unintelligibly, excited at the commotion. Mr Wilson stepped forward again.
“Thank you, Mr Farlow, for your much-needed words. I would like to take this moment and reach out to anyone who wishes to tell their story. The Liberator needs fresh voices, and articles to help the fight against ignorance. Mr Farlow himself has agreed to write an article – if you too will lend us your experience, please see me after the meeting.”
He stepped down from the podium, assisting Mr Farlow, who bobbed his wide black hat to his companion, and bid farewell to those who could not stay as the rest made their way into the small side room for the usual refreshments.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs Mason - and you too, little one.” Mr Winston gave a smile to Grace and then turned to Sarah, his dark eyes lighting up. “Sarah, it is good to see you.”
Sarah handed Bea a cup of tea. “Mr Winston - would you like a cup of tea?” She held out her own cup to him. “I can fetch another?”
“No, thank you. I have had enough tea and coffee today; I would not deprive you of yours.”
There was a gentle awkwardness between them, and Bea saw how Mr Winston looked at Sarah with admiration and attraction. And yet Sarah kept her gaze down always, blocking his advances.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Mason... Sarah.”
“Afternoon, Mr Winston,” offered Bea, while Sarah distracted herself with the tea, and tried to hide the flush of colour to her cheeks.
Chapter 19
Beacon Hill, Boston.
Christmas 1832.
THE SMELL OF SPICES filled the bottom kitchen. Three different forms of Christmas were to take place under one roof. Though Bea and Beth knew only of a simple kind; handmade gifts wrapped in scraps of fabric, and handed out after church, the family feast made of whatever they could get cheaply from the shops, or in abundance from their own snares. Joshua’s Christmases had been filled with parties and celebrations, the grand house full of visiting guests, and always swimming in the rich tang of drink and the scent of fir and chocolate. As for Sarah, she talked little about her own experiences of Christmas time; only knowing that they attended church for a special service and eaten a special spiced dish of meat and fruit that her mama had once taught her to make. Since living in Boston, fellow members of the meeting house had invited her to join their respective Christmas gatherings, but every year she had said no, not wanting to intrude. This year, however, was different. Grace had brought her into the home, and into a new family, and Sarah was a part of a new tradition of Christmas celebration.
BEA SPRINKLED THE CINNAMON into the cake mixture, and ground the fresh ginger Sarah had found at the market in the mortar and pestle. She had smelt nothing like it before. She closed her eyes and imagined she was in an exotic land. When she opened them, Beth and Sarah were giggling at her.
“What?” Bea laughed back.
They shook their heads and continued with their tasks. Bea gazed down at the ancient recipe book she had found in a bookshop on the main street. She had never owned one before; a family tradition was to pass all the knowledge down through the generations. She gazed at the list of ingredients: sugar, molasses, citron fruit, spices, eggs, suet and a whole pound of butter. She had heard of the plum pudding before, but it was a rich man’s dish.
“Do you think Joshua is going to like it, I’ve made nothing like this before?”
“This is one of his Christmas traditions, is it not?” asked Beth, and Bea nodded. “And since you are making it for him, no matter how it turns out, he will love it - just like we always say, it is the thought that counts.”
“Your gesture will mean a lot to him,” added Sarah.
“I hope so.”
She tipped in the rest of the fresh and dried fruit, then added the molasses. The smell alone would be worth the work. Grace, making sure everyone was still aware of her presence, tapped her rattle against her wooden chair and shouted enthusiastically at her mother.
“Would you like to smell it, my sweet?” Bea lowered the bowl next to her small face and allowed Grace to breathe in the spices and rich, sugared scent. She marvelled over the contrast of her daughter’s upbringing against her own. The privileges Grace would know that Bea had not. When she was older, Bea wanted to teach her the simplicity of life; how to catch and prepare dinner, to live off the land, to create beautiful things, and not just buy them. But living in the town meant she couldn’t show her the joys of the countryside. That would be her greatest wish one day; to move out of the town and into the countryside, where Grace could walk freely through the woods and the fields, like she had done. Perhaps even have her own secret spot by the sea.
Bea lined a muslin cloth against the sides of a fresh bowl, and carefully poured in the glossy, thick mixture. The clock on the mantle chimed in the background.
“You had better get ready, the both of you. Guests will be here in an hour,” noted Sarah.
“I supposed I must, though I was hoping for a quiet Christmas Eve,” smiled Bea wryly.
“It won’t be too bad. Everyone is only coming to have a few drinks, and I’m sure they won’t stay late. The snow looks l
ike coming down pretty heavy tonight.”
Another of Joshua’s wishes had been a Christmas Eve party, a reminder of home, and a light-hearted networking opportunity. Bea had spent the last few days making sure the house was presentable for the Goldstein’s. Back in England, she would forage in the nearby woods for foliage, to decorate the house in evergreen and holly. But Joshua put a stop to her, walking through the park and snapping off branches to trail back home. So instead, she ordered as much fir and as many seasonal flowers as she could get her hands on to decorate the house.
She tied off the cloth into a double knot and placed the bowl on the side counter. “Sorry to leave you with this mess, Sarah.”
“You just make yourselves presentable now, and Grace and I will sort everythin’ down here, won’t we, child? And then, we might just have a night of pure mischiefin’ around the two of us, and a Christmas Eve bath, mayn’t we, we my little sugar?” Sarah lent down and tickled Grace from her chin down to her tummy. Grace cried out in delight and kicked her legs ferociously.
It had been hard to approach the subject, but a week ago, she had tried to explain as respectfully as possible that she didn’t want Sarah serving at the party; she didn’t want it to be in any way akin to the Goldstein’s gala. “I will help them get drinks with Beth, or they can help themselves. I don’t want people viewing you like... like that, not here, and not at Christmas. Would you stay with Grace instead?” She wished she could invite Sarah as her own guest to commune with everyone, but in her heart she knew that neither party would be comfortable with that situation.
“It sounds like you will have lots of fun. I wish I could join in.”
Both Beth and Sarah heard the anxiety in Bea’s voice. Attending a gala, pretending she was one of those people for one night alone was one thing, but inviting those people into the sanctity of her home was another. And yet, for Joshua, she would brave it all.
