“I can see that,” Henry said.
I was still fuming. Mr Kelsall went on.
“And we have to season them up, get them used to the hard life that’s coming. Make them realize they aren’t people any more. Just goods.”
I stood up, ready to walk away. If I didn’t leave, I would punch something.
Mr Kelsall stopped me. “I know. I understand it all now – the cruelty, the pain. I will never forget. You do not know how hard the memories press down on my soul.” His eyes were pale and watery. “I deserve your hatred,” he said. “What I saw on that last voyage, no man should ever see.” He breathed in a long shuddering breath. “People tossed overboard. The bodies in the water, all those sharks thrashing beneath, turning the sea red.” He blinked a tear. “Those poor souls.”
Mr Kelsall mumbled to himself and made the sign of the cross.
“How is that possible?” I said, fury burning in my heart.
The mate blinked at me, then hurried away. He wiped a tear as he went. I had never seen a grown white man shed tears and I longed to follow him and ask him more. But I had promised to help Henry and we still had plenty of work to finish.
“Did you see that?” I asked him when Mr Kelsall had gone below deck. “Those tears?”
Henry shrugged. “That voyage he talked about, that was a year or two ago at least, a ship called the Zong. He thought to make his fortune, but since he returned – and poor as he set out – he’s been that melancholy. Except if you get him talking about our Nancy. Oh he’s a good heart, and I do believe that’s his problem.”
“No man should buy or sell another,” I said. “It is an evil trade.”
“True enough.” Henry picked up the empty pail. “I know there’s many of us would rather fight the French or the Spanish – or both – than crew a slave ship.” Henry frowned. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to be bought and sold like meat or cattle.” He shook his head. “I would not wish that on my worst enemy, and you are, I think, my friend.”
I smiled. I had never had a white friend.
“Henry?” I asked. “I have heard that in England there are no slaves at all. That slavery is not allowed…”
Henry shrugged. “My family, well my sister Nancy mostly, runs a pub, The Cat and Mutton, down by the docks in Shadwell. I’ve seen folk of all colours in there, sailors, servants … can’t recall seeing any slaves as such.”
I took some comfort in Henry’s shrug. Even though I looked for Mr Kelsall later I did not find him, and from that day on the mate avoided me. He looked away when I greeted him – he seemed afraid that I might ask him more.
We suffered one more storm, in cold northern waters, when the boat rolled and rocked so hard I carried all my pineapple plants, snug in their boxes, down into the space under my hammock, where, along with everything else, they slid backwards and forwards as we were tossed on the waves. In the turmoil the glass broke on one of the boxes and I was forced to repot the plant, soil and all, up close with another.
But the young master and the old mistress were both too sick to notice and we sailed into the Port of London seven weeks after leaving Jamaica.
Henry said farewell on the dockside.
“Not goodbye though,” he said, hugging me. “We will meet again, I know it. When I am master of my own ship.”
“I worry that may be too long.”
“Perhaps. Tell you what,” Henry said as he helped me load up the last of the pineapple boxes. Missis Palmer watched, from a distance. She looked damp and cold. Henry lowered his voice. “Since you’re free now, why don’t you tell old sourface to stuff it?”
“Hurry, boy!” she called. I looked at her. Was I free now? Maybe I didn’t have to go anywhere. I didn’t move. Could I really talk back to Missis Palmer?
“Don’t forget!” Henry said. “The Cat and Mutton. If I’m not there, ask for Nancy. I’ll be staying there ’til I get a new ship. I expect Mr Kelsall will be sniffing around too. But don’t let that put you off. You make a better brother than I’ve ever had.”
I blinked. Had he really said that? He saluted, pulled his bag on to his shoulder, and made his way off the dock.
“Nathaniel!” Missis Palmer’s voice cut the air like a knife. Suddenly she was there beside me and twisted my ear hard.
“Owwww!”
“Those who cannot hear must feel!” she said, and marched me towards the front of the cart.
I climbed up into the cart behind Missis Palmer. She threw me such a look but I didn’t care. I had a friend and a brother. And I was in London.
The city was filthy. It was May and the moon was high in the sky, shining brightly. But every building, even those fine ones, taller than mountains, seemed to be very dark. But I did not care. I breathed in deep. Was this what freedom felt like?
The streets were crowded, the like of which I had never seen: animals, men and women, and running between the crowds what seemed like an army of children, unshod and clothed in rags. I had imagined London, the grandest city in the whole of the world, to be, if not quite paved with gold, then perhaps wearing its good fortune, instead of hiding its wealth under a cloak of soot and grime.
As the cart slowed up behind what I guessed was the Barratts’ London house, I shut my eyes and made a promise to myself. I would unpack the pineapples, safe in their boxes, settle them into their new home in English soil. And then I would ask the old mistress for my freedom.
No, not ask, I would demand it.
CHAPTER
5
LONDON
I had to help unload the Barratts’ trunks as we arrived early. There were two footmen at the door with white powdered wigs who looked down their long noses at me as I struggled inside. I reckoned they had been dragged out of their beds to welcome the Barratts, as their jackets were not fastened and their boots still unbuttoned.
I must say I had never seen anything like that house. Barratt Hall in Jamaica was large and fine, but mostly made of wood. This house had a hall that was floored with black and white tiles, and a huge staircase that curved round and up as far as I could see. There were so many candles, their flames reflected in so many bright shining mirrors, that even though it was dark outside it seemed like daylight indoors. My mouth must have fallen open, as Missis Palmer told me to leave the trunk at the bottom of the steps and find the servants’ staircase instead.
It was late when at last Missis Palmer showed me my bed. Only it was not a bed, rather a straw mattress laid out under a table in the kitchen. Not the bed of a free man, I thought, but I was too tired to argue, and my legs still not used to solid ground after being on board ship for so long. I lay down but could not sleep. I twisted and turned, wondering if Mamma knew I was so far away, and how long it would take me before I could step off the boat at Falmouth a free man, a pocket full of English money, ready to buy her and Martha’s freedom. Three months? Before the winter came? If I took a year Martha could be walking and talking and sold away before I got back.
I prayed hard until I slept. When I woke up I reminded myself that praying had never done me nor anyone else I knew any good and opened my eyes. As the room was in the basement of the house I could look up out of the window and see feet passing above, boots and buckles, black and brown leather, even a pair of unshod feet, pale as milk. Were there really poor white folk in this famous city?
The floor was hard and in the early light it was cool. I lay still, worrying about the morning – about standing up to the old mistress, and claiming my freedom – but also about the plants outside. Were they too cold? I thought I might drift off in the dawn but the next thing I knew the household began to wake up around me.
A girl came in: small, with shiny brown hair the colour of polished wood. She was wearing a blue shawl, her skirt pinned up so it didn’t drag on the floor. She began to sweep out the ashes, and as she worked she sang. It was a song I’d never heard before, about a girl wrapped in a sheepskin or some such stupidness.
Then from outside
there was another noise, a low rumbling like far-off thunder. I forgot about the pineapples and got up, wanting to see.
“God’s own mercy!” The girl jumped a mile. She turned on me, brush held out like a weapon. Then she paused, studied me. “Are you with Mr Shadrack?” She put the broom down. “Do you dance too?”
“No!” I was affronted, but did my best to cover it. I had scared her and now felt stupid myself. I put my hands up. “Sorry, miss. I came with the Barratts.” I bowed. “I am Nathaniel, from Jamaica, come to look after the pineapples.”
“Of course! I clean forgot.” She smiled and bobbed a curtsey. “Mary Lee. From Hackney.” She must have seen the look on my face as I had never heard of the place. “It is a village on the edge of London. My family are gardeners too.”
“I only wanted to see the street,” I told her. “I’ve never been to London and we arrived last night, very late.”
“Good morning then, Nathaniel. Although I think I shall call you Nat if you don’t mind as that involves a good deal less letters.” She put down the pan full of ashes and wiped her hands on her apron. “There is an easier way. Here, out through the front area.”
I hesitated.
“We’re not going far,” she said. “And Cook’s not up yet. Come on.”
Mary opened a door that led into a basement courtyard with steps leading up. The light was so different from home, softer, I thought. The sky was blue but pale as if it were further away. I held back, but she took my hand and led me up to the street and out through the black-painted railings that bordered the house.
The house lay set back from the main road, one of a sort of curtain of tall houses that I later learned was a terrace, all painted white and set around a patch of green grass, which was the square garden. There were no verandas and the trees were all small and new-looking, with bright green new leaves. None would bear climbing. And I saw straight away that the ground was paved with nothing but stone.
What was truly astounding, though, was the noise. It was not thunder. From the main road to the south, the sound of many horses, a thousand iron hooves and wheels trundling over the granite road. And so many people singing their wares: watercress, roses, a man offering to sharpen knives.
“Sometimes on a Sunday there’s a puppet show for the little ones in the park, and, oh! You must have heard of him. Mr Shadrack Furman? Darker skinned than you, dances lovely. He is so clever! He has this model ship as a hat and the dance makes it seem like it’s rolling on an ocean.”
I stopped listening. I had had my fill of oceans and boats. In the middle of the square, I noticed a milkmaid all in white sitting on a small stool beside the filthiest cow I ever saw.
“Are you catching flies?” Mary was grinning. “Only your cakehole is so wide open I swear you could drive a coach and horses right down it!”
Over the noise came a louder, higher yell from behind us. The smile dropped from Mary’s face. She gasped.
“Quick!” she said, and ran back down the steps.
I followed reluctantly, and found Mary, hands over her head, being set about by a woman wearing an apron, who I guessed must be Cook.
“Stop!” I stepped in between Cook and Mary, and received the back of Cook’s hand for my trouble. “There is no slavery here! This is England!”
Cook froze, hand in mid-air. Mary gave me a look that was far from grateful.
Cook looked at me. “Slavery? Mary Muggins here gets paid over six pounds a year and gets every Sunday afternoon off! For six pounds a year I reckon as I can hit her as often as I like.”
Six pounds a year, I thought. A grown field slave like Mamma sold for forty or fifty pounds. I would need to work hard to earn enough money for Mamma and Martha.
Mary picked up the broom and began sweeping like her life depended on it. “My name is not Muggins.”
“Your name’s what I say it is.” Cook picked up a poker from the fireside. I thought she might do Mary an injury but she merely riddled the fire with it. “’Specially when you’re gallivanting round the garden square like you own the place when I’ve so much work for you to do. Have you forgotten the duke and his family arrive at the end of the week? We have to impress him and his daughter. So your man can take her home to Jamaica.”
Mary kept sweeping and said nothing. I was reminded of my own situation. Still, she was beaten and paid. She could walk out of this house and into another with every part of her feet still attached to her legs.
Cook studied her hand where she’d hit me. “You’re the black boy? Doesn’t come off does it?” She laughed at what she plainly thought was a most excellent joke.
“I swear you look nearer brown than black. I hope you don’t turn the milk with that sour face.” She began to roll up her sleeves. “Your Missis Palmer, her with a broomstick up her fundament, she says I’m to tell you to see to the piney apples.” Cook wiped the tabletop with one hand and emptied some flour on to it with the other. “I think she’s worried the house cat has done its business among them, or will do if they’re left out in the garden any longer. And the upstairs maids are all in a fluster with that blessed parrot snapping its great beak at them. It’s not natural if you ask me…”
She shooed me out towards the garden before I could attempt to question her further. I went quickly, just in case she picked up the poker again and decided to use it on me.
The back garden was smaller than the garden square and surrounded by a high brick wall. There were so many roses, climbing up and around the walls just like the ones back in Barratt Hall, their scent took my breath away. Save for the roses, there was a square lawn with a summer house in the centre, surrounded by low shrubs. The backs of the other tall houses rose up like a curtain of bricks. Higher still, were small dots of birds, swooping and calling up in the sky.
Banging on the window brought me back down to earth. I looked up at the house and saw Missis Palmer giving me the evil eye from the first floor. She indicated that I should wait. A moment later she came out into the garden, showing me the glasshouse, which leant up against the back wall. By the smell of the fresh sawn wood, it had been newly built.
Inside, the pineapples were in their boxes on the ground. One look told me they would need more heat than this pale English sun. I thought of what Thomas would do. Before I left, he had told me that piled-up hay could create its own kind of heat. I told Missis Palmer what I needed and she directed me to the mews behind the house, where the household kept their horses and carriages.
“There is a door at the far end of the garden, you will find what you need there,” she said. I started off towards it but she called out, “Nathaniel! This is not home. There is to be no more wandering around the streets. Cook told me what happened this morning.”
I almost went to speak, to explain myself, but stopped. She would not listen. Nothing I said mattered. She went on.
“You are only here to work in the garden or the kitchen. You’re not to go upstairs without permission. You must remember who you are!”
I looked at the ground. As if I could forget, I thought, and went to find the door. It was stiff and hard to open, but I slipped out into what seemed like another world.
There was so much activity and industry. The stables served all the large houses in the square. At the end of the mews was a blacksmith’s forge where a man was shoeing the finest dapple-grey horse I had ever seen, its mane shining like silver silk. I thought then it must be the truth; that everything English was indeed superior. Then I came upon a swarm of men mending a cart whose axle had been snapped in two, by the looks of it. I could have stayed there all day and watched. And what’s more, nobody gave me a second glance. I had imagined that, this being England, and darker skins being rare, folks would stare. But none of this army of working men gave me so much as a second look. Indeed, the groom, who could have been only a couple of years older than me, was polite as a gentleman, simply asking how much hay I needed and supplying me with a wheelbarrow.
When I returned, Missis
Palmer came back to the garden and stood watching me as I piled the hay around the plants.
“Will they live?” she asked. “The regular gardener Mr French says he won’t have anything to do with them.”
I wheeled my barrow to a halt. “I am doing all I can, Missis Palmer, but I must admit they are suffering.”
“They need to look their best.” She frowned and looked at me as if I was no more than a piece of dirt. But that was her normal manner of looking, so what she said next was rather a surprise.
“You will see to the fruit and then come with me. You need a decent set of clothes. The Barratts have decided to make a present of you to the duke and duchess along with the plants.”
My mouth must have dropped open.
“They have a fondness for the exotic, otherwise I cannot think why anyone would consider you a gift.”
“A gift? Missis Palmer, I have done my duty…”
She looked at me and I could not fathom her expression, not disgust, not disdain.
“Duty?”
“Yes,” I said. I had not meant to bring up the matter of my freedom with Missis Palmer, but perhaps this was the time.
“You will do as you are told. You have no duty. You belong to the Barratts and soon you will belong to the Duke and Duchess of Mistleton.”
I shook my head. “Oh no! Missis Palmer you do not understand. We are in England now. I am free. I will tell the mistress and young master and—”
Missis Palmer burst out laughing. She put her hand over her mouth so I didn’t have to look at her gnarly teeth, but she laughed and laughed. Eventually she composed herself.
“Free? Hah! And I am the King of England’s mother!”
She turned on her heel and went back inside the house.
“There will be no more embarrassing yourself or the Barratts with talk of freedom! You are property. As we all are. And you, Nathaniel Barratt, will be a slave until the day you die!”
I felt a little shaky, but knew I was in the right. Clearly Missis Palmer was just trying to upset me, or else didn’t have her facts straight. I piled up the hay to keep the plants warm, as if I was tucking them up in a sick bed. I saw my plans turning to dust. I went back inside to find Mary Lee washing pots. Cook was nowhere to be seen.
Freedom Page 3
