Next year the debate in the Commons was resumed. Pitt, Burke, Fox and Wilberforce all spoke movingly. But still the advocates of the sanctity of property carried the day. After a gruelling two days’ debate, Mr. Wilberforce’s Motion was rejected by 163 votes to 88.
“I shan’t give up, you know,” said Mr. Wilberforce, smiling. “I’ve hardly begun to fight as yet.”
And now began a bewildering time, a time of uncertainty, of cross-currents in which it was impossible to tell whether the cause of Abolition was prospering or fated to be thwarted — for years, for ever? – through adversity brought about largely by its own supporters.
While Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. Clarkson, Mr. Sharp and the other leading Abolitionists had no option but to swallow the bitter medicine of our defeat in Parliament, (a defeat suffered in spite of the advocacy of the Prime Minister and the foremost politicians of the day), popular support for Abolition among electorates and the general public surged throughout the country as never before. Local meetings mobilised opinion to a degree hitherto unknown, due in many places to the advice of Mr. Wilberforce himself on how to obtain the backing of the most influential personages in the locality. No fewer than 500 petitions were submitted to Parliament and as many supportive articles appeared in local newspapers.
Josiah Wedgwood put on the market a cameo showing a negro in an attitude of piteous entreaty (“Am I not a man and brother?”), and this became fashionable, inlaid on snuff-boxes and enamelled on china. A poem by Mr. William Cowper, The Negro’s Complaint, was widely circulated.
I know that Mr. Clarkson fully expected the submission of a further Bill, or alternatively some direct action on the part of the Government, for our opponents in Parliament were now plainly seen to be representative of no more than a superficial minority when weighed against public opinion.
However, other influences were at work; in particular, to my unhappy regret, the characteristic forthrightness of Mr. Clarkson, the like of which he had shown in Liverpool. On more than one occasion he showed himself unashamedly sympathetic to the ideas of the French Revolution. I know that Mr. Wilberforce tried in vain to curb his outspoken candour, knowing that it could only have an adverse effect on the Abolitionist cause. Too many people thought that both of them were tarred with the same radical brush; and that Abolition would deflate English mercantile assets.
In the House there was a certain amount of support for a vagary introduced by Mr. Henry Dundas, an M.P. on friendly terms with Mr. Pitt. This man favoured not outright but gradual abolition and many Members supported him in what they saw as a rational, moderate policy. But Mr. Wilberforce was having none of that.
The next Parliamentary debate in the House took place the following April, and in spite of the best efforts of Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. Fox and Mr. Pitt himself, Mr. Dundas’s amendment “That the Slave Trade ought to be gradually abolished”, was carried by 230 votes to 85. “’Forever and a day’ that means,” said Mr. Sharp disgustedly. “They’re the ones that ought to be gradually abolished.”
These conflicting ideas of support — compromise and total opposition — filled me with perplexity; not about the justice of our cause, but about the likelihood of its success. The King was openly against us; also Nelson and several other influential public figures. It was about now that Mr. Wilberforce was physically threatened by a certain Captain Kimber, a slave-trader who had been tried (and acquitted) for the murder of a black girl. Were there likely, I wondered, to be more attempts on our leader’s life?
It was one evening in June of that summer that we Abolitionists were invited to dine with Mr. Pitt. His invitation included myself, which naturally pleased me very much. I was placed on the left of Mr. Sharp, and I suspect that that kindly gentleman had expressly asked for this arrangement, to avoid my being seated at the foot of the table. (Not that I would have minded.)
I was much impressed by the unpretentious grandeur of the dining-room. Although I tried not to stare about me, I could not help being struck by the lavish number of candles, the smooth, self-effacing attendance of the servants and the excellence of the dinner.
To my mind Mr. Pitt, at the head of the table, looked every inch the renowned statesman, genial and courteous to his guests and reciprocal of all that was said to him. He was now, as I had been told, 33 (my own age), and still, after nine gruelling years in power, looking young for a Prime Minister; yet his bearing was calm and confident and no one observing him could suppose him unequal to his great office.
As usual when among my betters I remained reticent, speaking only when spoken to and as briefly as good manners permitted. I took a sip or two of each of the wines but (with deep regret) left the quaffing at that. Only when the port reached me did I allow myself a full glass; and I was still deep in the flowing tide of appreciation when Mr. Pitt tapped on the table for silence.
He began by praising us for the effort, sincerity and skill with which we had struggled against blockheaded resistance to the cause of Abolition. As we all knew, he was entirely of the same mind as ourselves – that total Abolition was the only course consistent with the principles of humanity and Christian morality. The Slave Trade now was a monstrous evil and no decent man could refuse to make use of the means that Providence had given us for wiping away our nation’s guilt and shame.
He, like us, had been encouraged by the support shown for Abolition throughout the country. Yet many of our supporters among ordinary people had, without realising it, harmed this noble cause. It was both sad and troublesome that it was seen by many as inseparable from the reckless radicalism, the anarchy of the French Revolutionaries. The recent rising of blacks in San Dominguez was felt by many to be all of a piece with the disorder in France. What had happened in San Dominguez was directly attributable to the French Revolution. Many people feared — yes, reluctantly he himself feared – that to abolish the Slave Trade would encourage malcontents among the public to set about disrupting law and order here.
He was in little doubt that the French Revolutionaries were going to execute their King, the symbol of moderation and equity, and in all probability would declare war on us. He knew that they had their counterparts and sympathisers in this country. Those sympathisers must be quelled at all costs. This was why he had been forced to decide, against his own wishes, that pressing our cause of Abolition must be deferred. He would be waiting for the chance to take it up again, but for the time being, that chance was nowhere in sight.
“We mustn’t pipe down, Daniel,” said Mr. Clarkson, as we were going home. “If anything, we must work even harder.”
I could, of course, only reply that I agreed. But in my heart I felt downcast. Our defeat in the House and Mr. Pitt’s reluctant decision to set aside the Abolitionist cause, resembled, I thought, the fate of Sisyphus, condemned to push a great stone uphill, a stone that rolled back to the foot as he was about to shove it the last few yards to the top.
Next morning, at breakfast, Mr. Clarkson was silent for some time. At length he said, “Daniel, I’m going in search of a sailor.”
“A sailor, sir?”
“Yes, a sailor whose evidence against the Trade I know to be of great importance.”
“Have you got his name and whereabouts, sir?”
“I don’t know his name, I don’t know where he is and I don’t know whether he’s dead or alive.”
“But Mr. Clarkson, sir —“
“I shall set out this morning and I shall get aboard and search through all the naval ships at Deptford, Woolwich, Chatham and – er –“
“Sheerness, sir?”
“Oh, yes, of course, and Portsmouth. And if I still haven’t found him, then I shall go down to Plymouth, too. I’ll leave you some money, of course, to keep everything in order till I get back.”
“And when will that be, sir?”
“How on earth should I know? I’ll write to you, of course.”
I am well aware that it must seem unbelievable to any normal person that an educated, intelligent man
like Mr. Clarkson could formulate such a plan. It is almost more unbelievable that the plan was successful. Mr. Clarkson visited all the naval ships in all six ports, and discovered his man at Plymouth, on the fifty-seventh vessel he boarded. I forget now how long it took him, but he was convinced that what he had done was worthwhile. I never learned what the man’s evidence was.
When Mr. Clarkson had left, I began seriously to consider my future. I could no longer ignore the plain truth that for some weeks past my feelings had begun to alter. At the outset of my career as an abolitionist, I had been more than happy that so distinguished a man as Mr. Clarkson should have adopted me as his lieutenant and given me my head to speak publicly about my experience of the Slave Trade under Captain Hawkshot. He had helped me, too, to educate myself, to read great literature and to improve my self-confidence and style. Hard master though he had been, I had felt glad to be his pupil. His sharp words and cutting manner had not dispirited me. If anything, they had drawn me closer to him. I had felt it a privilege to work as his colleague, one to whom he could speak his mind and be himself. He had set out to break my resolution and, finding he couldn’t, had felt justified in assuming that our opponents couldn’t either. And yet, without being conscious of it, I had undergone a gradual change. I had grown more experienced, knowledgeable, and able to form opinions of my own. It grieved me to find myself critical of Mr. Thomas Clarkson, the brilliant orator and philanthropist, the Abolitionist warrior whom no setback could discourage. Yet I could not repress my feelings. I remembered the London Committee’s doubts before our visit to Liverpool. They had feared that he would show himself a tactless hothead and they had been proved right. He had raised hackles. He had said things that I myself wouldn’t have dreamed of saying. And he had embarrassed his fellow-abolitionists again upon his return from France, by openly commending extreme Revolutionary ideas. Furthermore, he was a man with whom one could not reason or argue with the least hope of modifying or changing his opinion. It was now my view that I could do more for Abolition without him.
In a word, I wanted to spread my wings; but this I could not do on my own account, for lack of money. So what I needed was a new, more amenable superior; one who felt he stood to profit by what I had to give him. I was black; I was not without valuable experience. Weren’t those assets of worth to a man capable of recognising them?
Lastly (and less commendably) I had found Mr. Pitt’s damper on Abolition disheartening. I felt I would like a change to some entirely new place and new activity.
As I stirred this bubbling cauldron, something came floating to the surface; something that I had forgotten. Mr. Gratby and Mr. Hayter had spoken of Sierra Leone, the black colony destroyed by a vengeful African chieftain. Had the very idea of such a colony been abandoned? What might be the present position?
Once more I managed to get Mr. Wilberforce’s ear for a few minutes.
“Sierra Leone, my dear boy?” said he. “Abandoned? Oh, dear no; we still mean it to succeed. Our Sierra Leone Company received its charter only last year, you know. Granville Sharp’s the president and I’m one of the directors. The chairman is Henry Thornton.”
I thought it significant that they had elected Mr. Thornton as chairman, rather than Mr. Sharp.
“If you want to go out there,” Mr. Wilberforce went on, “the man to talk to is Zachary Macaulay. He’s just been appointed a Councillor to the Governor; he’ll be going out to Sierra Leone quite soon now. He lives at Clapham, you know. Anyone there will show you his house.”
I walked out to Clapham that evening and soon found my way to Mr. Macaulay’s. I followed the parlourmaid into the drawing-room and found Mr. Macaulay and Mr. Denis Green playing chess. I apologised for intruding.
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Macaulay, jumping up and shaking hands. “You’re Mr. Daniel, aren’t you? How d’ye do? Denis, I resign. You’re too good for me.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Green. “You’ll win the next game, no danger. Good evening, Daniel. Nice to see you again.”
I was surprised (though, of course, I concealed it) to perceive that Mr. Zachary Macaulay was considerably younger than myself. I guessed him to be about 24. He wore his own hair and spoke with a noticeable Scotch accent.
“I’ve heard much good about you, Mr. Daniel,” he said. “I’m delighted to meet you at last. Don’t go, Denis. Let’s all sit down and have some whisky. Have you come to talk to me about anything in particular, Mr. Daniel?”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” I replied. “About Sierra Leone. Mr. Wilberforce himself advised me to consult you.”
“Well, you’ve come at the right time,” said Mr. Macaulay. “I’m sailing out there quite soon.”
“Well, I want to come with you, sir. That’s what I’m here to ask,” “Are you sure? You realise it’ll be very demanding work, do you, low paid and possibly not without danger?”
“Well, sir, as you know, Mr. Pitt has decided that his Government will have to set aside the Abolitionist cause for the time being, but that doesn’t suit me any more than it suits you. I’m not content to pipe down: my feelings about the slave trade are the same as your own. I’m told you want activity and so do I. I’m sure I could give you a lot of help — in — er — Freedom Province it’s called, isn’t it?”
“Have you had much experience of working for Abolition?”
We sat down, the three of us, before the fire, and I told him about my work with Mr. Clarkson. Then he told me about the cruelty of slavery in Jamaica. “I just couldn’t live in the place any longer,” he said, “even though I had a good job out there. It’s simply not consistent with Christianity. I resigned and came back to join Wilberforce and his people — the Clapham Sect, as they call us. Well, several of us are dining with Henry Thornton tomorrow. You’d better come along. Four o’clock suit you?”
And this was how I first met the renowned Clapham Sect. That evening we were seven at Mr. Thornton’s; Mr. Wilberforce himself, Mr. Venn, Mr. Grant, my literary friend, Mr. Stephen, Mr. Macaulay and – the postulant, myself. “It’s heart-warming to welcome a black gentleman to our circle,” said Mr. Venn. “So you’re going to keep our friend Zachary company in Freedom Province, are you? I’m sure you’ll be useful to him.” “Hear, hear,” said the others. Their approval greatly encouraged me.
Mr. Macaulay had received advice from Mr. Falconbridge, one of the Sect whom the Company had sent out as their agent when rebuilding began after the destruction of the first “Granville”.
“The rains out there begin about the end of June,” Mr. Falconbridge had told him, “and last till October. It won’t be practicable to do much re-building until they’re over.”
However, earlier in the year the Company had sent out a fresh band of over 100 white settlers, and these had joined the fifty or so of those remaining after King Jimmy’s attack.
The new Governor was Lieutenant John Clarkson, of the Royal Navy, younger brother of my mentor Thomas. His two Councillors were Mr. Macaulay and a certain William Dawes, formerly an officer of the Marines, who had had experience at Botany Bay in Australia.
I need not go into the details of our departure, although I must record that Mr. Thomas Clarkson was generous in speaking of what I had done for him. I think he may have been influenced in my favour by the risk I was running in going to Sierra Leone.
“You’ll come across plenty of slaves there, you know,” he said.
“Sierra Leone’s the biggest slave-holding depot in West Africa. ’Makes for difficulty. Where there’s slaves there’s trouble.”
“I shall take it as I find it, sir.”
“Well, I’ve given young Macaulay a good account of you. I wish you luck.”
In accordance with Mr. Falconbridge’s advice, Mr. Macaulay and I did not set out until mid-September. Our ship was small and rolled a good deal, but was otherwise comfortable enough. With us, also bound for Sierra Leone, was a clergyman, the Reverend Nathaniel Gilbert, whom the Company had chosen to act as chaplain to the settlement.
Mr. Macaulay and I found him pleasant enough and were glad to have him with us.
Accompanied by a Royal Navy schooner, we sailed well out into the Atlantic before turning south, in order to avoid the French, of whom we saw nothing.
Mr. Macaulay and I berthed together, and this was how I realised from the outset the importance to him of his Christian belief. Without the least instigation on his part and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I found myself kneeling in prayer with him morning and evening; and then in reading, turn and turn about, a passage from the Gospels. Although, in London, despite my association with the friendly Quakers, I had never attached much weight to religion, I was content to fall in with Mr. Macaulay’s practice, not only because it helped to strengthen our relationship but also, I confess, because it brought about in me a certain inclination towards the Christian faith. Mr. Macaulay never patronised or condescended to me. About religion we never conversed at all. His unselfish, considerate behaviour had more effect on me than any amount of proselytising could have had. It was easy to keep his company.
If I had only known it, the Christian faith as motivation was common to all the members of the Clapham Sect and to no one more than Mr. Wilberforce.
One morning, as we were leaning together on the starboard rail, enjoying the warmer weather, Mr. Macaulay asked, “How much have they told you, Dan, about the form of government in Freedom Province? I mean, do you know about Thomas Peters and the Nova Scotians?”
“Nova Scotians?” I replied with surprise. “Did you say ‘Nova Scotians’? No, sir, not a word.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I know myself,” he said. “I take it you’ve heard about ‘King Jimmy’ and the disaster three years ago?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Gratby told me about that. It was Mr. Wilberforce who told me about the Sierra Leone Company getting its charter from the Crown last year, and about the new settlement they’ve called Granville Town. But I’ve heard nothing about any Nova Scotians.”
“Well,” he went on, “after the end of the War of Independence in America, a number of freed slaves who’d fought on our side and couldn’t get a decent living where they were, emigrated to the British settlement in Nova Scotia. But they still couldn’t obtain any land, and they were obliged to get their living as farm labourers on very low wages. They were in a bad way. One of them, a man by the name of Thomas Peters, came over to England last year to try to get some support for them. He met the Clapham Sect, and Henry Thornton offered to let his people settle in Sierra Leone. Naturally, Peters jumped at this.
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