Joseph Knight

by James Robertson

  It was not fate, then, but chance, that led to his meeting Mr Andrew Davidson. If he had not been thwarted on his weekly visit to Pirie’s Land by the fact that his acquaintance there was refusing even her most regular guests (‘for medical reasons – but naething you need tae fash aboot, Airchie’), he would not have been stepping along the High Street at three in the afternoon with a spare hour on his hands. Nor, it followed, would he have seen Sir John Wedderburn’s lawyer, Mr Duncan, standing at the entrance to the New Inn talking to another man, and apparently preparing to take his leave of him. These events occurred as all life occurred: a minute’s delay here or there, and an encounter would not take place, an opportunity would be missed. The great imponderable, Archibald Jamieson would ponder later, was knowing whether these things made any difference in the long term.

  Duncan was large and brosie-faced, with a fat neck emerging like a tree trunk from a white cravat above a dark suit. His companion, identically attired, seemed considerably less healthy, having an emaciated look about him and skin the colour of porridge. He looked like another lawyer. He was unfamiliar to Jamieson, who prided himself on knowing by sight every lawyer in Dundee. This was what prompted him to find out who the man was.

  ‘Mr Duncan,’ he called, advancing on the pair. ‘Guid day tae ye, sir.’

  Duncan peered at him, seemed not to know him for a moment, then nodded curtly. ‘Mr Jamieson.’

  Jamieson planted himself firmly in front of them. ‘A fine day, sir,’ he said. ‘A very hot day, in fact.’ Then, turning to the other man, ‘A guid day tae be oot and aboot and no tied tae a desk, would ye no say?’

  ‘Aye, quite,’ the man said. In fact he looked as if he might expire on the spot, and glanced at Duncan to see if it was absolutely necessary to be introduced. Jamieson beamed expectantly at them both.

  ‘This is Mr Archibald Jamieson,’ Duncan said. ‘He is employed by us on an occasional basis. Clerical work, matters requiring some discretion …’

  ‘I’d hae thocht that included aw legal maitters,’ the man muttered, in a tone of complete exhaustion.

  ‘Very well said, sir,’ Jamieson said enthusiastically, and gave Duncan an inquiring look.

  ‘This,’ Duncan said, ‘is Mr Davidson of Perth. He is about to return there by coach, if the coach ever comes. Forgive me, sir,’ he said to Davidson, ‘I really must be getting back. I have another appointment. I will write you confirming the details of our discussion …’

  ‘Mr Davidson?’ Jamieson asked. ‘Mr Andrew Davidson the solicitor?’

  ‘The same, sir,’ Davidson said mournfully. He looked anxiously up the street for the coach, raising his right hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Duncan seized the hand as it came down again and shook it so vigorously that Jamieson feared it might come off.

  ‘You’ll be all right waiting here, sir? Really, I must …’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Davidson said, ‘on ye go, sir. It’ll likely no be lang noo.’ He took a few steps away from them into the street, as if this would encourage the missing vehicle.

  ‘I’ll wait with Mr Davidson,’ Archie said to Duncan. ‘Ye needna fash yoursel. I’ll mak sure he gets a place on the coach.’ There was no queue of passengers, so it seemed this would not be a difficult undertaking.

  ‘Would you mind?’ Duncan looked relieved. Under his breath he added, ‘I don’t like to leave him unattended. He looks as if one more clean shirt would see him out.’

  ‘Aye, he’s awfie poukit,’ Jamieson said. Then, loudly, ‘It will be a pleasure, sir.’ While the two lawyers exchanged a last few words, Jamieson went into the inn and asked about the non-appearance of the coach. Word had just come, he was told, that it would be half an hour late, as one of the horses had gone lame and was being replaced. When he went back out with this news, Davidson was on his own.

  ‘Ye’ll be as weel coming inside and getting a seat,’ Jamieson said, after explaining the delay. ‘Some coffee, perhaps, micht revive ye?’

  ‘Jist a glass o water, I think,’ Davidson said. ‘I dout my wame willna tak coffee.’

  Jamieson found them two chairs in a corner and ordered the water, and coffee for himself. Davidson sipped at the glass gratefully and slumped in his chair. ‘Thank ye, sir, thank ye. I am no a weel man.’

  ‘I ken,’ Jamieson said. He watched as the other man produced a blue silk handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth with it. A network of creases spread across Davidson’s cheeks; a patch of silvery stubble on his chin and a few strands of grey hair on his bald head only accentuated the pallor of his skin. Jamieson calculated that if Davidson had been, say, in his twenties when he handled the Knight case, he would now be in his mid- to late fifties. He appeared considerably older.

  ‘Ye ken by looking at me, or ye ken by some ither means?’ Davidson asked. ‘Ootby, ye seemed tae recognise my name. And I feel I should mind yours.’

  ‘I wrote ye back in February,’ Jamieson said. ‘I heard then frae your clerk that ye werena weel.’

  ‘And whit did ye write concerning?’

  ‘It was in connection wi some business I undertook for a client o Mr Duncan’s. Ye’ll be weel acquainted wi Mr Duncan?’

  ‘Moderately, sir, moderately. A guid faimly lawyer and an honest man, I think, which is twa things that recommend him tae me at this particular time. I find mysel unable tae continue my practice as I once did. I am wasting away, apparently, or so my physician tells me. Therefore I am taking the opportunity o a slight improvement – believe me, Mr Jamieson, I looked a hundred times worse in the spring – tae redd up my affairs. I hae nae son in the law, ye see, and naebody in Perth wants the business, which, tae be frank, hasna flourished of late. Mr Duncan, however, is willing tae tak on my Dundee clients – if they are willing tae be taen on by him.’

  ‘There is nae enmity between ye, then?’

  ‘Enmity?’ Davidson became slightly more animated. ‘Why would there be?’

  ‘The maitter I was inquiring aboot was an auld affair in which ye represented a slave cried Joseph Knight against ane o Mr Duncan’s clients. John Wedderburn o Ballindean.’

  Davidson gave a thin laugh. ‘Ah, noo I mind your letter! Oh, but that wouldna make Duncan an enemy o mine. Or the tither way aboot. In ony event, it was auld Mr Duncan that was in charge in thae days. The present Mr Duncan was still in college. Lord, Mr Jamieson, ye should ken yoursel, if lawyers took the dorts wi each ither on behalf o aw their clients they would gey soon find themsels unable tae practise at aw!’

  ‘But it was, was it no, a bitterly fought case?’

  ‘There was bitterness in it, aye, but no amang the lawyers. Whit was it ye wanted tae ken aboot it?’

  ‘Ye mind it, then?’

  ‘Oh, aye, it was a famous case. I certainly gained a small reputation by it. An unusual case. But is the coach no due?’

  ‘Dinna fash,’ Jamieson said. ‘I am watchin through the windae, and I’ll no let it gang withoot ye.’

  ‘Muckle obleeged,’ Davidson said. ‘I think if ye werena here I would fall fast asleep.’

  ‘Whit kind o man was Joseph Knight?’ Jamieson asked.

  Davidson pressed the tips of his fingers together and closed his eyes. Jamieson thought he was indeed dozing off, but it appeared he was collecting his thoughts. When he opened his eyes again a brightness had come into them that had been absent before.

  ‘He was extraordinary,’ Davidson said. ‘Forby the fact that he was black, which made him – weel, rare, at ony rate. But there was mair tae him than that. If there hadna been – if he had jist been a puir ignorant Negro wi a grievance – I dout I wouldna ever hae taen him on.’

  ‘Extraordinary? How?’

  ‘Weel, in the first place, Mr Jamieson, ye must think back thirty year. The American war hadna happened. The French Revolution hadna happened. Scotland was a douce, quiet kind o place in thae days. Or at least, Perthshire was. Ideas aboot liberty werena exactly rife amang the lower orders, let alane amang slaves. The fact that Mr Knight had the courag
e and the cleverness – and the thrawnness – tae bring his cause afore the sheriff at all – that was extraordinary.

  ‘He was a guid-looking chiel tae – clean and weel dressed – and maist o whit little he said was sense. He’d had instruction frae a minister oot by Ballindean, and been baptised, and though I dinna think it gaed ower deep wi him he had the carriage o a God-fearing man. These things mak a difference, as ye weel ken, when a solicitor is deciding whether there’s a case tae be made. Maybe they shouldna, but they dae. Weel, Mr Knight had thocht through his situation and he saw the things that micht coont for him and the things that micht coont against him, but he believed the natural justice o his cause ootweighed the latter. And forby aw that, he believed the sheriff – Lord Swinton as he later was – would hear his case sympathetically, and that was a necessary and practical consideration. John Swinton was a plodding, dour, tedious kind o man, but he was a fine lawyer and a humane judge. And I, too, considered these things and came tae the same conclusion as Knight did – that his case could be won. But it wasna Knight that first came tae me. It was his wife. Noo whit was her name?’

  ‘Ann. Ann Thomson.’

  ‘That’s richt. A bonnie, bonnie lass, but ye could tell she was hard beneath the surface and that was anither factor on their side, for they were likely tae be in for a lang haul. She had got my name frae somebody, and she came aw the way tae Perth and speired at me tae help them.’

  Davidson put his handkerchief to his mouth again, but this time he coughed painfully into it. He took more water.

  ‘I was something o a radical in my youth, Mr Jamieson. I hae changed my views since. I dinna haud wi awthing that has happened in France, and I whiles think the radicals today dae mair hairm nor guid wi their wild rantings. But slavery is a thing I never could abide, and when that lassie came tae me wi her tale I decided I would help them though they would never hae the siller tae pay me for my trouble.’

  For a man who had seemed at death’s door fifteen minutes earlier, Davidson had revived to a remarkable extent. Now he twisted in his chair. ‘I hear horses. That’s no the coach awready, is it?’

  ‘Na, na, ye may bide a while yet,’ Jamieson said. Davidson looked relieved. Briefly, his eyes closed again.

  ‘So ye never took ony money frae them,’ Jamieson prompted. ‘Even when ye won the appeal at the sheriff court?’

  ‘Win or lose, they couldna hae payed me. Oh, they were puir, puir folk. And efter we won at Perth, and Wedderburn took it tae the Session at Edinburgh, they got puirer. Knight left Ballindean, or was pit oot, and they bade here in Dundee, but it was hard for him tae find regular work. He had nae skills, ye see – he could cut hair, but the barbers o Dundee werena keen tae let him practise.’

  ‘Because o his colour?’

  ‘In pairt, perhaps. But mair because he was Wedderburn’s slave. Folk kent aboot the case, and mony o them were feart o upsettin the Wedderburns. So it was a hard time for Joseph and his bonnie wife.

  ‘Weel, I tellt Mr Knight tae haud on, that ane o the very best advocates in Edinburgh was going tae represent him. That was John Maclaurin, Lord Dreghorn as he became, I’d had word tae approach him and he’d taen the case like a saumon snappin a fly. If the Knights could jist keep body and soul thegither for a few months we would see an end tae it. But the case dragged on for years – four years, five years, Mr Jamieson – and I think if they hadna had some assistance frae different quarters they would hae stervit tae death afore there was an ootcome.’

  ‘Who helped them?’

  ‘Oh, there was a number o different folk. A minister raised siller for them frae his congregation, I mind that. But them I mind maist were the anes that could least afford it. The colliers.’

  ‘They were as guid as slaves themsels in thae days, were they no?’

  ‘Aye, but the first Act for their emancipation was passed richt in the middle o the case, jist when the Knights were at their maist desperate. Some o the colliers in Fife had read aboot Joseph Knight, and they raised a subscription for him. By that time I hadna sae muckle tae dae wi the case, it was John Maclaurin and the Edinburgh advocates that were handling it. But I mind I was very moved when I heard that thae puir craiturs had sent siller tae their fellow-slave. Some folk dinna hae a guid word for the colliers, but I aye thocht that was a noble act.’

  Jamieson’s coffee was long finished. Davidson drained the last of his water. ‘I canna tell ye,’ he said, ‘hoo little I hae thocht on aw this in recent years. And I canna tell ye hoo glad I am tae think on it noo. When ye’re as ill as I am, it does ye guid tae mind that ye did something useful in your life.’

  ‘Hoo ill are ye?’ Jamieson asked.

  Davidson gave his thin laugh again and held up his forefinger and thumb as if they held a pinch of salt. ‘I am this close tae death, Mr Jamieson – or this far, ye can tak your choice. I am riddled wi the cancer, and will be lucky tae survive till August. I suspect I’ll be unlucky if I survive ony langer. I used tae be as weel fleshed as yoursel, would ye believe? Noo I feel seik at the mere sicht o food.’

  ‘I am very sorry tae hear it,’ Jamieson said.

  ‘Aye,’ Davidson said, smiling, ‘and forby that, ye would much prefer I talked tae ye aboot Mr Knight, eh? Whit’s your interest in him?’

  ‘I am lookin for him,’ Jamieson said.

  ‘Ye mean, John Wedderburn is lookin for him?’

  ‘No. He was, but no ony langer.’

  ‘Wha’s payin ye noo, then?’

  ‘Naebody. It’s for mysel.’

  ‘For nae siller? Why, Mr Jamieson, if ye dinna mind me speirin?’

  Jamieson shook his head. ‘Tae be honest, until I had this conversation wi you, I didna realise I was still lookin for him. As for whit my reasons are – I’m no certain.’

  ‘Loose ends, perhaps,’ Davidson said. ‘I ken that habit – I like tae hae them tied up mysel. Weel, I’m sorry, but I canna help ye. The last time I saw him was in the Parliament Hoose in Edinburgh, on the day the case was heard at the Court o Session. I never kent whaur he and his wife gaed efter that. And I never heard frae them again.’

  He turned again at the sound of hooves and wheels on the cobbles. ‘Ah, surely that is the coach at last?’

  It was. They stood together and began to walk to the door. Jamieson felt something slipping away from him. Here was a man who had known Knight, worked for him, apparently respected him – a dying man for whom Knight still represented something good, something ‘useful’. By chance Jamieson had met this man, but he was unlikely ever to see him again. There should be some kind of resolution but there was none. Jamieson still felt a distance between himself and Knight, a distance that was more than simply all the years that had passed.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Davidson,’ he asked, as they left the inn and approached the coach, ‘did ye like Joseph Knight?’

  Davidson stopped. ‘That’s an interesting question. Wait.’ He went over to the coachman and asked how long he had before the coach left. Some parcels and boxes were being handed up on to the roof. ‘We’ll be five minutes yet, sir,’ Jamieson heard the coachman say. Davidson came back.

  ‘Like him? I never had cause tae dislike him. But like him? I canna say. I didna ken him weel enough. He didna seem tae let folk ower close tae him. For me, it wasna aboot whether I liked him or no. It was aboot the rightness o his cause. And I never had ony douts aboot that.’

  They shook hands, and Davidson went to take his place in the coach. Another couple of passengers had appeared from the inn. Davidson came back again. It was as if he, too, realised that this might be his last opportunity to speak to anyone about Knight. ‘He wasna warm, ye see. At least I never found him sae. If ye dae come across him, ye’ll ken whit I mean. I wish I could tell ye whaur he is, but I canna. But I would be obliged if ye would remember me tae him, if ye ever find him.’

  He hauled himself into the coach, and as he went Jamieson saw how the bones of his shoulders poked back through his coat.

  ‘Then ye thi
nk he’s alive?’ Jamieson asked, when Davidson had settled himself.

  Davidson laughed again. ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘In my state o health, I apply the same rules tae awbody else as tae mysel. Unless I ken for certain that a man is deid, I assume that he’s alive. I’m an optimist, ye see, Mr Jamieson. I hae aye been an optimist. It’s the only way tae live.’

  Edinburgh, 30 August 1776

  It was Friday, a fine summer’s afternoon, and, the Session having risen a fortnight before, the lawyers of Edinburgh once again had a little time on their hands. John Maclaurin, Andrew Crosbie and James Boswell had met for a glass of wine in one of the High Street taverns, but all, for various reasons, were unenthused by the prospect of a solid night’s drinking: Maclaurin, because on the last two or three such occasions he had got caught up in games of whist and lost a lot of money; Crosbie, because he had an extremely fine claret breathing in his New Town house and did not want to wreck his palate before he returned to it; and Boswell because he was suffering from one of his fits of depression and guilt, and knew that if he got drunk he would, in an effort to dispel the depression, double the guilt by finding himself a prostitute. In addition, all three of them were subdued by the recent death of that emblem of enlightened Edinburgh society, their friend Mr David Hume.

  So when, after only one bottle, Maclaurin suggested a walk in the King’s Park instead, possibly even a stroll to the top of Arthur’s Seat, the others readily agreed, and six o’clock found them setting out from Holyrood across the rough grassland of the park, passing little groups of other walkers, playing children, and a line of elegant-looking white cattle being escorted home round the base of Salisbury Crags by a herd with a couple of dogs. So fine were these cattle that Crosbie paused to admire them and speak to the herd. This gave Boswell the chance to unburden himself to Maclaurin. The last time they had seen each other had been two days before, at Dreghorn, where Maclaurin had had a party out to play bowls. Margaret Boswell had been unwell, so James had gone alone and as a result had got very drunk.