Daniel

by Richard Adams

  “He’s Vicar of Teston now,” said Mr. Winter. “That’s a few miles this side of Maidstone. What you’ve told me is so important that I think we ought to go and see him, and the sooner the better. Can you come with me tomorrow?”

  “But what about your own work, sir?” I asked.

  Mr. Winter chuckled. “I’m a schoolmaster,” he replied. “It’s the holidays just now.”

  Making an early start and changing horses en route, we reached Teston during the afternoon and were lucky enough to find Mr. Ramsay at home. I was at once struck by his appearance.

  I judged him to be in his mid-fifties, and far from robust. Gaunt and haggard, he had the look of a man who had suffered, either from illness or harassment. There was a kind of preoccupation in his manner, as though we were not receiving his full attention. However, he plainly wished to make us welcome and rang for tea.

  Mr. Winter said that we both wanted to congratulate him on his publication about slavery in the sugar colonies.

  “I know it’s had a wide circulation,” he replied, “and thanks to my old friend Sir Charles Middleton I’ve been able to talk more than once with Mr. Pitt himself. Sometimes I allow myself to believe that one day the slave trade will be abolished. If I’m a soldier in the fight, I shouldn’t complain, should I, if I’m wounded?”

  ‘”You have been wounded?” asked Mr. Winter.

  “By the attacks in the press, most grievously,” he answered. “The savage hostility shown to me not only by the plantation owners in the West Indies but also by their supporters in this country has been a bitter blow.”

  “But sir,” said I, “these people have no thought beyond keeping what they are pleased to call their property – the slaves – and of opposing any change for the better. They deserve nothing but your contempt.”

  “That’s good advice, young man. But it’s always troubling to know that there are people who hate you and wish you ill. However, let’s forget them for the moment. Tell me the reason for your visit.”

  “My friend Daniel here,” said Mr. Winter, “has seen the evil trade at first hand. I have brought him here expressly to tell you his story. I believe he’ll be a unique witness for us.”

  Mr. Ramsay turned to me. “Tell me all that you’ve experienced. All that you’ve come to say.”

  I did so. As I went on, I was amused to realise that Mr. Winter was listening with attention not unlike that of a child hearing a familiar tale. “You’ve left out about Ushumbo and his insolence to you,” he interrupted at one point. And a little later, while I was telling of Hawkshot’s lies about the availability of water, he nodded vigorously in corroboration.

  As I ended, Ramsay said, “Thank God you were spared to tell this dreadful story. Mr. Winter, in what way do you think it can best be used?”

  I felt that he might in the first place have asked me. “What I have it in mind to do, sir,” I said, “is to meet Mr. Clarkson and ask him whether he can make use of me when he speaks to local audiences round the country.”

  “Good, good,” said he. “Clarkson — yes, a stout fellow. But your story should be printed and made available to the public.”

  “I fear that must wait, sir,” I answered. “I’m but a sorry hand with a pen. If I’m to write I shall need help.”

  “Well, you may certainly have it from me, if you choose. You have only to ask me whenever it may suit you. Meanwhile, with your permission, I shall tell Mr. Pitt what you have told me at the earliest opportunity.”

  While I felt grateful to Mr. Winter for enabling me to meet Mr. Ramsay, I could not help but conclude that he was something of a spent force. He needed, I thought, stout comrades to fight beside him.

  I need not tell in detail of Mr. Winter’s continued kindness and help. He not only insisted on my treating his home as my own, but a day or two later told me that we would go up to London together.

  “For,” said he, “it’s a confusing place to someone who’s never been there, and to tell you the truth I’m not yet at all sure how we’re going to get hold of Mr. Clarkson. All the same, you can safely leave it to me.”

  I certainly did find London bewildering. I had never imagined anything like the reality. In Bath and even in Bristol the noise was tolerable and the air was not polluted with smoke. London was far dirtier than Bristol. Also, of course, Bristol did not extend so widely in every direction. Walking up Cheapside with Mr. Winter, I lost all sense of direction. The ceaseless din of wheels on the cobbles half-deafened me and because of the ubiquitous rubbish, mud and horse-dung one could reach the opposite side of the street only by way of crossings swept more-or-less clean by poor boys in rags, who looked to get some sort of living with the pence for which they begged. The Cockneys (as Mr. Winter told me they were called) seemed to be forever swearing, quarrelling or beating their wretched mokes. To me this was a foreign country, peopled by unpleasant strangers, and how could any stranger hope to find his way out of it?

  However, these feelings subsided somewhat as we walked through the city and came out into the green fields of Euston and Marylebone. The Society of Friends, as I was to learn, had plenty of members in the districts round London, and it was no problem for Mr. Winter to learn the address of an abolitionist so well-known as Mr. Thomas Clarkson. It turned out, however, that he was away on speaking visits in Hertfordshire and was not expected back for a day or two. It was actually the best part of a week before I was able to meet him at his rooms in Clapham.

  It had been stormy all day and it was while Mr. Winter and I were looking out at the rain that the sitting-room door flew open to admit the man who was to be a decisive influence on my life – Mr. Thomas Clarkson. In one respect I was surprised; despite what the Rev. Malcolmson had told me, I had not been expecting so young a man. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. The first impression he made was of enormous – almost alarming – energy. As he slammed the door behind him he threw down on the table the papers he was carrying and, without a smile, looked keenly from one of us to the other. Clearly, that I was black caused him not a moment’s hesitation. He was a handsome and obviously a highly intelligent man, but his features were drawn and strained as though from anxiety or overwork. I could see the pulse beating slightly at his temple. Giving each of us a quick handshake, he sat down on a hard chair and motioned us to two that were upholstered.

  “I gather that you gentlemen are sympathetic to the cause of Abolition,” he said, glancing at a notepad on the table. “Mr. Winter and Mr. Daniel; just so. How can I help you?”

  “I rather believe, sir,” said I, thinking that a direct approach would probably be the most acceptable to a man like this, “that it may be I myself who can help you. I have had direct experience of the slave trade in West Africa, of the so-called Middle Passage and of the slave market in Jamaica. Mr. Winter has kindly brought me here today to tell you all I have seen. As a black man who has served many months on a slave ship, I believe I may be of help to you — even, perhaps, a unique witness.”

  “You’ve come to tell me about it, have you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  And so I told Mr. Thomas Clarkson — no less — about Captain Hawkshot, Jack Wain, Ushumbo, Basil Townley, my shameful capitulation and the drowned slaves.

  He heard me out in silence, and when I had ended said nothing for a short while. At length he asked, “You’re absolutely sure of everything you’ve said, are you? No embellishment?”

  “None whatever, sir.”

  “And you want to take an active part in the movement for Abolition, do you?”

  “Sir, I’m ready to devote my whole life to it, if necessary. I hope you’re going to tell me what I can best be doing.”

  “Would you be ready to speak to audiences at public meetings?”

  “With all my heart, sir. There’s only one thing that makes me hesitate.”

  “That is?”

  “Well, as I’m sure you’ve perceived for yourself, sir, I’m
not an educated man. I haven’t the command of words that you have and which I expect other gentlemen have who speak against Abolition.”

  “That doesn’t matter. In fact it will be an advantage. You’re an ordinary man, like the people we want to convince. And you’re black. Frankly, I often wish I was black myself. You’ll have a unique appeal. Can you join me and Denis Green this Wednesday?”

  “With great pleasure, sir. Where are we going?”

  “To Newbury, about sixty miles; and then to Reading on Thursday. Bring a night-bag and an overcoat. That’s all you’ll need. Not money; I’ll see to that. Join us here at six in the morning on Wednesday. And now I’ll have to leave you; I’ve got work to do. My thanks to you both and good afternoon.”

  On Wednesday morning I was punctual. I was introduced to Mr. Green and we set off in fine weather.

  “I believe you know Bristol, Mr. Daniel?” said Mr, Green, evidently wishing to be friendly.

  “Not well, sir. I know Bath rather better.”

  “Ah, a beautiful city,” he replied. “I hope we’ll get a chance to speak there one day.”

  We had luncheon at Maidenhead and changed horses. It was getting on for six o’clock as we approached Newbury and I was feeling that I had travelled quite far enough. Mr. Clarkson, however, seemed as fresh as paint. “I expect Minnock’ll be waiting for us somewhere here,” he said. “Yes, there he is. Pull up, Barnes. Good evening, Minnock. ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

  “No, Mr. Clarkson, sir, thank you. I’ll drive ahead of you to Reverend Slocock’s.”

  “Slocock’s a tower of strength,” said Clarkson to me. “He’s organised this meeting practically single-handed. If the Church had more like him, that Wesley fellow wouldn’t command so much support.”

  It was not far to the Rectory, where Mr. Slocock welcomed Mr. Clarkson as an old friend and extended a warm welcome to Mr. Green and myself. As we sat down to roast beef and apple-pie, Mr. Clarkson outlined to the Rector my experience of the Slave Coast, the Middle Passage and Jamaica. He went on to speak of the value he attached to me as a black witness of the horror of the trade. When Mr. Slocock tried to draw me out a little, Mr. Clarkson interjected, “He’ll tell you that himself, later.”

  I asked the Rector where the meeting was to be held.

  “Why, in the Church,” he answered, “close by. No alternative; it’s the largest assembly place in the town.”

  “Splendid!” said Mr. Green. “This is a sacred cause, no question. You had no difficulty in getting authority?”

  The Rector grinned. “I’m the authority,” he replied. “This is my parish and my church. If the Bishop doesn’t know that by now, he ought to.”

  Soon afterwards we stepped outside, where we found any number of people arriving for the meeting. Mr. Slocock greeted several by name, and it was plain that he was popular. Many were clearly of the labouring class — Mr. Clarkson’s “ordinary people”. Most of them stared at the black man standing beside their Rector, but quite a few nodded to me in a friendly way as they turned to go into the church.

  People were still coming when Mr. Slocock took Mr. Clarkson’s arm and led us in, up the nave to the chancel steps. With his back to the assembly, he clasped his hands, closed his eyes and murmured “Lord God, we beg Thee to be with us this evening as we do Thy work,” to which the three of us contributed a muted “Amen.”

  As he turned to face his audience, he showed for the first time that evening a bearing of power and authority. It was as though he had put on an imposing robe. Visibly he was the same man and yet he was not. Everyone seemed to feel this, for he commanded immediate silence.

  He began by saying that we should all be glad that so many people, both men and women, had come this evening to hear about the evil of the African slave trade. In case anyone thought that this had little or nothing to do with England, he wanted everyone to know that no fewer than four-fifths of the trade was carried out by British ships. This was a dreadful sin in the sight of God, and all of us, as a nation, were collectively guilty of it. “Don’t think you’re not guilty,” he went on. “We’re all guilty. But if only enough people in this country were determined to put an end to the trade, it could be ended; and Mr. Thomas Clarkson, a distinguished public speaker, has come here tonight to tell us how. Also here to speak is Mr. Daniel, who was born a slave in America and has served on an English slaving ship. He is going to tell us what this evil trade is really like — what actually happens when black people are captured and taken across the Atlantic ocean to toil in harsh conditions and without pay until they die. In the course of two centuries millions have died. Finally, Mr. Denis Green will tell you about the harm the trade has done to Africa.” He thereupon called on Mr. Clarkson to go into the pulpit and speak.

  To these Newburians and to myself, who had never heard Mr. Clarkson speak, he was like a refiner’s fire. His passion, his overwhelming conviction almost frightened his audience. He blazed with anger. He shed plainly unsimulated tears of grief. Not a man or woman could remain detached from his fervour. Yet it was not mere emotion, mere verbiage. He made clear to his audience the hard facts of the trade’s history, of its shameful lawfulness, of the growth of public opposition and of what had to be done by Parliament. Parliament could and should be petitioned and this was something that their Rector was going to organise.

  And now Mr. Daniel, who had actually served on a slave-ship, was going to tell them what the reality was like for the millions — yes, millions — of black people torn from their homes to suffer and die in misery.

  As Mr. Clarkson came down, Mr. Slocock, smiling at me reassuringly, led me up into the pulpit. I turned, gripped the edge in both hands and faced the audience.

  I had not prepared myself for this. I was not talking just to Mr. Winter or to Mr. Clarkson now. Below me, looking up expectantly, were hundreds of faces; and they were all the faces of white people. I had lived for years among white people with almost no conscious sense of inferiority. Lady Penelope and her servants had all been my friends. So had Basil Townley, Limbrick, Portway — all of them. But now, as I confronted these white strangers, there rose up within me uncertainty, acquiescence, deference, standing like a wall between them and me. My forebears possessed me, slaves bowing down before their betters, submissive, obedient, waiting for permission to go. Lord above! It wasn’t my servile place to speak; I wanted to go, to be among my own black people.

  Looking from one face to another, I saw them becoming first puzzled and then restive. What in heaven’s name was he doing up there, this black man, this natural inferior? Why wasn’t he speaking? Anyway, what could a black man have to say? A few people were already getting to their feet,

  “Come on, Daniel! Speak up! I’ve come a long way to hear you!” The voice rang out from the back and a hand was waving. Then its owner stood up. It was Paul Chester.

  Instantly my true self returned. The forefathers left me. I knew my business now all right. I was essential, unique. If these people didn’t hear what I had to tell them, they’d probably never hear it at all.

  “I’ve come to tell you how I sailed from Bristol on a slaving voyage and of all that I saw with my own eyes, in Africa, at sea and in Jamaica. I promise you that every word is true.”

  At once my voice – my singular, black voice – regained their attention. I shortened my account of my meeting with Hawkshot and of the voyage out, and concentrated on making them see with their own eyes the beach at Lekki. When I described the condition of the slaves, two or three women, plainly upset, stood up and made as if to leave. “You must stay and hear me,” I called to them. “The black people – my black people – you’re their only hope!”

  As I told about the slaves manacled in the hold, the killing disease, the filth in which they lay and then about the deliberate drownings, I became carried away with fury. I beat on the pulpit, shouted and was almost chanting. They still listened and no one moved. As I ended, in the slave-market in Jamaica, women were we
eping and a voice called out “Well done, lad!”

  Mr. Green, following, spoke about the harm done to Africa. Europe and America were progressing, were prosperous. They were developing their natural resources. Africa was not. No; it was deteriorating. For two centuries its people had been seized by force and carried off in millions. Tribal kings had been corrupted into selling their own people for alcohol and firearms. Civil wars had been fought simply to capture slaves. The continent had been stripped of its manpower, corrupted, ruined, and Britain was by far the country most to blame. Deaths on British slave-ships crossing the Atlantic ocean were sometimes as high as eighty per cent and almost never less than forty five. The damage done to Africa was almost irreparable. It would be centuries – yes, centuries — before this terrible wrong — the greatest wrong in all human history – “tell me a greater” – could be righted. This was our shame — our shame as a nation – and God saw it, if we didn’t.

  As Mr. Green finished, the Mayor stood up and spoke a few words. He said that he was sure that everyone had been deeply moved, as he had himself. He had no doubt that Newbury would be stoutly in favour of Abolition and would do all it could to bring it about.

  The four of us stayed until the audience had gone, but when we followed I found, as I had been expecting, Paul waiting to speak to me. I introduced him and thanked him from the bottom of my heart for his help to me.

  “How ever did you get here?” I asked him.

  “Well,” he replied, “Lady Penelope gave me leave and a friend of Mr. Hodges took me with him as far as Hungerford.” He grinned. “I walked the rest.”

  The Rector invited him to join us for a bite to eat. Our night’s lodgings, to which we were guided by one of his servants, were comfortable enough, and I had no difficulty in including Paul. Next morning, at yet another parting between the two of us, Mr. Slocock secured him a place with a friend driving to Bath, while we set off for Reading.