Seeking Eden

by Ann Turnbull

  I appeared, I hoped, respectable enough. It was now winter; my labourer’s tan had faded, and I looked more clerkly; and I had taken care to dress in a clean and sober manner. Even so, my heart was beating fast as I knocked at the front door of the house in Walnut Street.

  It was opened at once by Kate. Our arms went round each other. I felt her body pressed against mine, breathed her breath and smelt the scent of her skin. I love her, I thought. I can’t give her up.

  “Come!” she said, releasing herself. She opened the parlour door.

  George Bainbrigg had heard my knock and was already on his feet. We entered and stood facing him, side by side and holding hands.

  “Josiah? What’s this?”

  We had caught him off guard, as we’d intended.

  “George Bainbrigg,” I said, “I come to ask permission to court thy daughter – with the intention to marry her when I am of age and able to set up home and provide for her and any children God may grant us.”

  Having delivered this speech I turned hot and looked down at my feet.

  “We want to be free to meet in plain view,” said Kate. “We are sweethearts, and want folk to know that.”

  I glanced up and saw that her father was not angry; indeed, he looked, I thought, almost relieved.

  “Well, Kate,” he said, “thou’ll have thy way, as usual. Watch out for her, Jos, or she’ll rule thee.” I permitted myself a smile. “I’d not be one to stand between sweethearts, and I doubt the meeting would approve if I did. Jos, I was moved by thy ministry on first-day. It spoke to my heart, to my unease about the trade in Negroes. I’ve felt guilty for a long time about my lack of care towards Antony and Patience. I was too eager to be rid of them. But Antony belongs to me now. I bought him from Isaac Shore today.”

  And Kate added, “Antony is up at the Shores’ now, but they know my father owns him, and the neighbours won’t let any harm come to him. We needn’t fear.”

  “I’ll visit John Outram in a day or two,” her father said. “He may be willing to buy Antony – or to sell Patience. I will find a way to keep them together – and to see them married.”

  “I’m glad of that,” I said. “We all are, and thank thee for it.”

  He gave a wry smile, and shook his head. “I’ve been angry with thee, Jos. I believed thou had involved Kate in thy wrongdoing and turned her against me. But that’s all in the past. We’ll say no more about it.”

  “I did wrong thee,” I said, “and I’m sorry.” I was determined to be as conciliatory as possible. Kate squeezed my hand.

  “Kate tells me she wants to be a schoolteacher,” he said.

  “Yes.” Kate and I exchanged a smile.

  “And thou, Jos? What are thy prospects with the grocer?”

  He’d been keeping an eye on me and my doings, then, I noted.

  “It’s steady work,” I said, “and useful. Not what I’d hoped for earlier in the year, before – before…” I stumbled, despite my wish to be in control.

  “Before our falling-out, yes,” said George Bainbrigg. “But thou hast no plan to change?”

  “I might consider change,” I said guardedly.

  George Bainbrigg let out a breath. “The fact is – I’ll be blunt – the man I took on to replace thee is no good. He’s older than thee; he’s not an apprentice; he’s a clerk, a man with some experience. But he makes mistakes. He’s not careful. I’d like thee back, Jos. What dost thou say?”

  I was startled. I hadn’t expected this, even though Kate had hinted at it a while back. It seemed I had changed in an instant from outcast to apprentice and future son.

  “I … I can’t,” I said. “Thou heard what I said in Meeting. I cannot bear to deal in slaves. It is against my conscience. I won’t do it, no matter how much…”

  “I’ve no wish to deal in slaves again myself,” he said. “I feel much chastened by recent events. But the fact is, Jos, we live in a world where these folk are bought and sold, and we cannot avoid all contact. But I can promise I would not ask of thee again what I asked on our Caribbean venture.”

  And as I stood, uncertain, he said, “I’ve missed thee, lad, and I’d like thee back. That’s the truth. And as for my daughter, I know you are sweethearts and I won’t come between you. Thou may marry Kate whether thou work for me or not. I don’t make it a condition. Think on it, lad. Talk to thy father and mother. Talk to Kate. Take her back now, to see thy parents. Hast thou had thy supper yet?”

  “No.”

  “Take her back with thee, then. Thy mother’ll find a sup for her, I reckon?”

  “She will, gladly.”

  I did not hold out for long. I had my pride; but excessive pride, I knew, was a sin. Of more concern was my conscience. I’d seen how my father had refused to print notices for the slave auction and had admired him for his stand. As a merchant’s apprentice, I might at any time be confronted with a similar situation.

  “A merchant is always looking for profit,” I said.

  We were sitting around the table at home: my parents, Kate and I. Looking around the room – comfortable enough now, though with unpainted walls, plain-weave curtains and wooden boards underfoot – I thought how much was needed in the way of earnings and labour to make a living and create a home for a family.

  My father laughed. “We all hope to make a profit, else how will we live – and pay for our children’s apprenticeships? Thou must deal with each challenge as it comes, Jos. If thou know, in thy heart, what is right, thou’ll have no difficulty.”

  “But I’ll be an apprentice – not free to choose.”

  “We are always free to choose. And thou won’t be an apprentice for ever. Four years is not long.”

  It seemed long to me.

  “He’ll send thee out to trade on thy own,” said Kate. “He did that with Matt Peel. Matt was often away.”

  Voyages. Independence. A chance to see more of the New World. Better that than being a grocer’s assistant. I saw that I must seize this opportunity and use it.

  “Don’t rush to give him an answer,” my mother advised. “Sit in silence and wait on the spirit.”

  “I will,” I said.

  But already my mind was made up.

  Thirty-two

  “She’s a bonny sight, the Frances,” George Bainbrigg said.

  The schooner was no longer anchored in the river but tied up at Samuel Carpenter’s wharf, not far from the counting house on Second Street. We stood in the doorway, looking out at her through a gap between the buildings. It was an evening in early autumn, almost a year since I had taken up my apprenticeship again with George Bainbrigg. I had been working hard all day with Richard Grey and the crew, gauging the ship, overseeing the lading and writing up the necessary papers. We were making ready for a voyage first to Maryland and then north to Boston – a voyage on which I would be in charge of the sale and disposal of the cargo and the purchase of goods in exchange. We would go out laden with woollen cloth, grain and tools, and would buy tobacco and indigo in Maryland, dried cod in Boston. The sails were furled, the hatches battened down. We were to sail in the morning, early. This was my first trading venture on my master’s behalf, and I was sick with anxiety and yet more exhilarated than I had ever felt in my life.

  “Excited?” my master asked.

  “Yes, indeed!”

  “And terrified thou’ll do something wrong or plain foolish?”

  “Yes.”

  He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Richard Grey will look after thee. And I have confidence in thy good sense – I wouldn’t trust thee with my goods, else. The traders will deal kindly with thee; they’re mostly Friends. And thou’ll see new places and different ways of living. It’ll set thee up, give thee confidence. Thou hast thy letters of introduction?”

  “I have.” I patted my side, where I had a pocket hidden inside my coat.

  “And the mail for Friends in Anne Arundel and Boston?”

  “Everything is safe.”

  “Well,
I’ll close up here tonight. Go back to the house now. Thou’ll be wanting to say thy farewells there…”

  He meant Kate.

  I said, “I thought Kate and I might go out and take the air, since it’s a fine evening.”

  “Aye, do that! It’ll be a while till thou see her again.”

  I had already said goodbye to my parents the evening before – though I knew my mother would be on the quay to see me leave. I would only be gone a month or two, but she’d be watching the weather and ships for my return.

  “Be pleased for me!” I’d said, hugging her.

  “I am, son. And glad thou’rt back with George Bainbrigg, and all mended between you.”

  My father had returned the money for my apprenticeship, which had continued as if it had never been interrupted. By February next I would be nineteen and almost halfway through my term.

  I went back to the house and found Kate in the parlour, seated at the table with pen and paper, and making notes from several books. She jumped up, put down her quill and came into my arms.

  “What’s that you’re doing?” I asked, nodding towards her work.

  “Oh, it’s for the school. I shall be teaching them English history and thought I should remind myself of dates and kings.”

  “Mam says thou hast brought Sarah on greatly. She can read and reckon quite well now.”

  “Oh, Sarah was a challenge!” She smiled; it was good to see her enthusiasm for the work she had chosen. “Her health is better, and that helps. But mostly she needed to come out from under Betty’s shadow. Betty is so quick.”

  “She is.” I turned Kate around and gave her a little push towards the table. “Put thy work away now and come out with me. We can take Hob as an excuse – though I don’t think we need one tonight.”

  “No.” She put the lid on the inkwell and replaced the quill in its case. “Dad understands.”

  We called the dog, and went out with him, turning away from the waterfront towards the unfinished centre of the city, where the roads soon turned to tracks through woodland. Hob trotted beside us. Once we were past most of the houses we held hands.

  Kate turned to me. “I wish Patience could be as happy as I am! Those two have so little, compared to us.”

  My master had been unable to persuade John Outram either to buy Antony or to sell Patience. They liked the girl, he said, and would not part with her; but although they had need of another man they could not afford to buy Antony. Instead, George Bainbrigg had agreed to hire him out to them three days a week. Patience had her own cabin, and on those days Antony stayed there with her and the baby, Kpana. So they were together some of the time, and Friends had seen to it that they were married and attended Meeting. And in time John Outram would perhaps buy Antony. But they were still slaves, property – to be disposed of if necessary. They could be sold to pay a debt, given away as gifts, separated, their daughter taken away.

  “The only right way forward,” I said, “is for Friends to refuse to take part in the slave trade.”

  Nothing engaged me so strongly as this concern. There was a group of us who prayed and talked about it regularly: Kate, my family, the Kites, Florian, and some of the Germans my father had met in the bookshop. Change would happen; it must. We all felt sure it was God’s will, and were working towards it.

  Kate and I had come to a part of the forest where the road was no more than a track and only a few plots were occupied. A series of clearings marked where settlers had moved in. We turned onto a woodland path that led alongside a stream. I put my arm around her waist and we walked along closely entwined.

  As soon as we were out of sight of the main track we let the dog run free and stopped under an oak and moved closer into each other’s arms. We lay down on the grass and leaf mould beneath the tree and kissed and embraced each other, and came as close as we dared to the act of love – closer than ever before. Our passion was the stronger for knowing that tomorrow I would be gone and it would be many weeks – perhaps months – before we could expect to meet again. I knew Kate was fearful for me – of the dangers at sea, of pirates, hostile Indians, illness. She clung to me and cried, and as I kissed away her tears I longed to be free to make love to her, to marry her now, not to have to wait. And I thought that perhaps it was for the best that I should make these voyages from time to time; the pain of separation might be easier to bear than this enforced chastity.

  “Thou won’t forget me?” She pressed closer, and we lay with our hearts beating together, kissing and murmuring promises. Yet all the time, underlying my sadness at leaving her, there ran a current of excitement and a longing to be on my way, off on my own adventure. These mingled feelings fought in me.

  Hob thrust a wet nose under my hand and licked us both. Kate giggled and sat up.

  “It’ll soon be dark.” She looked flushed, her lips red and her eyes bright with love.

  “Thou’rt beautiful,” I said. I would remember her like this when I was away.

  We stood up and brushed leaves and grass from our clothes. Kate’s kerchief was crumpled and lay askew over the neckline of her dress. I untied it, laid it carefully in place around her neck, and retied it with a kiss. “Let’s go home,” I said.

  Next morning I was on the wharf in good time, rechecking the cargo, receiving last-minute instructions from my master, and stowing on board my personal goods, few as they were. I was to have my master’s cabin, which pleased me greatly. It had a desk and writing materials, and a shelf of books: works by Robert Barclay, George Fox, William Penn and others. I had brought my journal to write up and also, secretly, paper and inks for drawing. Hidden in my pocket was a sketch of Kate, done when she was sewing, that pleased me, for it caught her likeness a little. I carried it with me as worldly folk would carry a painted miniature.

  I spent time disposing my belongings around the cabin, reluctant to go out and say goodbye to everyone until the last moment. I wanted all the partings to be over with quickly.

  Richard Grey knocked on the cabin door. “Josiah?”

  When I came out I saw that the crew were hoisting the sails. The canvas snapped and cracked as the wind caught it, and I felt the ship move like a live creature straining to be gone.

  Outside on the wharf stood George Bainbrigg, Kate, and my parents and sisters, as well as the usual gathering of passers-by who are drawn into watching a ship depart. I stepped ashore; hugged all my family in turn; held Kate close for a long moment.

  And then, in the crowd, I saw Antony. Eagerly, I called him over.

  “Tokpa…” I felt tears pricking my eyes. I’d wanted so much to be a true friend to him, not only to help him, but to be at ease with him, as I was with Ben or Florian. Perhaps that would come in time, as Africa faded to a memory and he grew more like us. But it would be hard to achieve, for our lives and our destinies were so different. Now, as always, the two of us had little to say, but we put our arms around each other in a wordless gesture of affection.

  Then he slipped away, back towards the counting house.

  George Bainbrigg took my hand and wished me farewell.

  “God send thee fair winds and a prosperous voyage,” he said. “Go well, Jos.”

  I sprang aboard. The rope was cast off; and the ship, her sails filling, moved slowly away from the wharf and out into the river, to begin her long passage towards the sea.

  Afterword

  When I began work on Seeking Eden I didn’t expect to be writing about slavery. I knew of course, that there were slaves in America at that time, but I never thought Quakers would have owned them or traded in them. My research soon showed that I was wrong, but even so I was shocked when I read of the 1684 sale of 150 slaves from the English ship Isabella to eager settlers in Philadelphia.

  The Quakers are well-known for their opposition to slavery, but this opposition came into being later in the eighteenth century. In 1684 there was no anti-slavery movement – though even from the earliest times there were individuals who spoke against slavery.
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  Some of these individuals were Quakers from the German-Dutch community at Germantown, near Philadelphia. As early as 1688 they sent a protest to Pennsylvania Friends, and their sense of outrage can be felt across the centuries that separate us:

  “There is a saying that we shall do to all men like as we will be done ourselves; making no difference of what generation, descent or colour they are. And those who steal or rob men, and those who buy or purchase them, are they not alike?… In Europe there are many oppressed for conscience sake; and here there are those opposed who are of a black colour… Pray, what in the world can be done worse towards us, than if men should rob or steal us away, and sell us for slaves to strange countries; separating husbands from their wives and children. …therefore we contradict and are against this traffic of men’s bodies. And we who profess that it is not lawful to steal, must, likewise, avoid to purchase such things as are stolen, but rather help to stop this robbing and stealing if possible. …(For) if this is done well, what shall we say is done evil?…” (This letter has been abbreviated and the spelling modernized. You can read the original at http://www.yale.edu/glc/aces/germantown.htm).

  I imagined that Josiah, young and idealistic, would have felt a kinship with these German-Dutch people who spoke so powerfully to their fellow colonists. But it was to be nearly a century before Friends declared themselves against slavery, and not until the mid-1800s was the slave trade finally outlawed.

  Ann Turnbull

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ann Turnbull grew up in south-east London but now lives in Shropshire. She has always loved reading and knew from the age of ten that she wanted to be a writer. Her numerous books for young people include Pigeon Summer, A Long Way Home, House of Ghosts and Alice in Love and War.

  Seeking Eden is the final story in Ann’s Quaker trilogy, and follows No Shame, No Fear (which was shortlisted for both the Whitbread Book Award and the Guardian Fiction Prize) and Forged in the Fire. Ann says, “When I left Will and Susanna together in 1667 with their newborn son, Josiah, I knew that as Quakers they would suffer increasing persecution. But I also discovered that in 1683 William Penn would at last realize his dream of founding a Quaker colony in America – and from that grew the idea for Seeking Eden.”