Chapter Seven
Liverpool Arrival
Liverpool
December 1805
The grey sky became lighter as the sun began to climb across the heavens.
‘I wrote some pamphlets about the abominable trade. You are welcome to read them, and perhaps they will better explain my ideas,’ said Thomas, as he passed William several pamphlets.
‘Thank you. With your permission I will read them now. It’s light enough.’
‘My pleasure, I’ll not disturb you.’
William read the pamphlets and realised how little consideration he had given to the African trade in the past. He was grateful that his father was not involved.
The rattle of wheels over the frozen ground was the only noise to disturb the silence within the coach. Even the constant clip-clop of the horses seemed a little subdued, as the mail coach drew ever closer to its destination.
After an hour William finished reading pamphlets. With a sigh he looked at Thomas Clarkson, seeing him in a fresh light. He was a man with a mission, a mission of mercy.
‘How can we ignore what has been written about this evil trade?’
‘It is out of sight and therefore out of mind for many people. They want their sugar, but they do not think of the pain and damage inflicted on fellow human beings to obtain it at a price they are willing to pay. In an effort to influence the plantation owners, we have persuaded many people to forego their use of sugar. If the owners cannot sell their sugar in the English markets, they will have no need for slaves. You no doubt saw the picture of the chained slave? We have used it as our symbol for some years. It is called Am I not a man and a brother? Josiah Wedgwood produced it in 1787, and it had such a strong impact that we have used it ever since. Wedgwood has been one of our members for a long time. We believe the image he produced aptly and emphatically depicts the brutality of the trade, and appeals to the better instincts of those who view the picture.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. The Society for Effecting the Abolition of the Slave Trade. We have many members, and we grow stronger by the day. Have you seen the image before?’
‘I have, but to my shame I always considered it as someone else’s problem. I am aware that the image was reproduced on medallions and became very popular.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could not help but overhear your conversation,’ said the elderly man from the corner of the coach. ‘Surely, if the plantation slaves are set free, they will no longer have any reason to work or grow and harvest the cane. Is it not God’s will that we civilised races control the lesser forms of life on Earth? You will find it so in the Good Book – Leviticus and Exodus in the Old Testament, and Colossians and Corinthians in the New.’
Thomas Clarkson retorted, ‘Because the African’s skin is black, Sir, cannot possibly give us the right to enslave him. He is the same as ourselves, and in the eyes of God we are all the same. Are we not created in His image?’
‘Indeed we are, Sir, but it is quite evident that the African is a lower species than the white races. Just consider his face. Note how his nose and his lips are different from ours. So is the shape of his skull. He does not feel pain as we do. He does not have the same concern for his family, so the removal of healthy specimens to the Indies, to work in the fields for our benefit, is surely no different than breaking a horse to pull this carriage.’
Thomas gave out a snort and spluttered. He tried to get his words out in a cohesive manner without yelling at the elderly man.
‘How can you say such a thing? It is preposterous to say the African does not feel pain in a similar manner to a white man. It is ridiculous, and unscientific, to think that the African is not a human person the same as you and I! How can you misquote the Bible on such a serious matter? Regardless of our colour, we are all God’s children!’
‘The next thing you will be telling me,’ said the elderly gentleman, ‘is that a Chinaman is as good as my wife, or myself, just like the African! And to think you are in Parliament.’
‘Don’t stress yourself, my dear, his words just show his ignorance and that he has not read the Good Book,’ said his wife as she patted her husband’s hand in a motherly gesture. ‘We will be leaving this coach at the next stage.’
‘Quite right, my dear, as usual, I should not let myself be stressed about a matter that cannot be changed. We should take comfort that the good people in Parliament have rejected all the efforts of this misguided anti-slavery group. How they think we will manage without slaves in the Fever Islands is beyond my comprehension. Obviously, God did not create us to work in the heat of those islands, whereas the African was born to such heat, and does not notice the difference between that of Africa and the islands. I believe they want to work for us, because they know we will take care of them just as we do our dog. If a dog knows this, the African will know it also.’
Thomas was turning red as he listened to the elderly man. It was a discussion he had heard before from so many ignorant and misguided people.
‘This is ridiculous. I refuse to discuss the matter for a minute longer.’ He sat back in his seat, breathing deeply to calm his temper. After a minute’s silence, he turned to William. ‘It is a long time, William, since I lost my temper, and I apologise to you. Perhaps I will close my eyes for a few minutes.’
William smiled and nodded his understanding. Perhaps he should also rest his eyes, he thought, and avoid the embarrassing contact with their fellow travellers.
The blast of the horn as the coach approached the next staging jolted William awake. The coach turned into an inn’s yard and was met by a man who was almost bent in half, as if he were carrying an invisible weight on his back. Two young men ran from the stable and began unharnessing the sweating horses.
The four passengers alighted from the coach and stretched their cramped muscles. The elderly man passed a few coins to the guard to ensure his cases would be unloaded carefully. His wife glanced at Thomas, who raised his hat in a polite gesture, and nodded his head.
‘Ma’am,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘I trust you have a safe journey home.’
The woman nodded, linked her arm with her husband, and guided him towards the main door of the building.
‘Come, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am cold and I don’t like it out here.’
‘Is it any wonder you have problems getting slavery declared illegal when people hold such opinions?’ William commented, and nodded at the couple entering the building.
‘Public opinion is one thing, but if I can persuade just one ship owner not to do business in the African trade, it will be worth the heartache.’
‘Gentlemen, a small repast or a glass to keep out the cold?’ asked the half-bent man.
‘Coachman, how long do we have here?’ asked William.
‘About five more minutes, Sir, we have to make Liverpool by this evening.’
‘Thank you.’ Turning to the stooped man, William said, ‘Perhaps some cold chicken, bread and a bottle or two of your wine. We will take it with us, so please be quick, because if we leave without our hamper, you will be short of a few shillings.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ snapped the man, and knuckled his hand to his head.
‘What ship?’ called William to the retreating figure.
The man paused, turned and retorted, ‘The Orion, seventy-four, gunner’s mate under Captain Duckworth, Sir, on the Glorious First.’
William returned the knuckled salute, smiled and said, ‘Carry on, Gunner’s Mate.’
The figure hurried into the building.
‘What was all that about?’ queried Thomas.
‘That man’s bent back made me think perhaps he’d served at sea in the past. He indicated he’d served under Lord Howe, of Ushant. His bent back is a sure sign of the lower deck. Did you see the marks of powder burns on his face? A sign of the gunner.’
The two men watched as the ostlers backed fresh horses in to the coach shafts.
‘All aboard,’ called the
driver as he climbed up to his seat. He settled himself into a comfortable position, then flicked the long whip to alert the horses they were about to leave.
At the same time the gunner’s mate arrived with a basket containing the food and wine. William paid for the food and added a generous tip. A gunner’s mate deserved more from life than a bent back in the service of his country.
‘Thank ‘ee, Sir, God bless you,’ said the old sailor, stepping back quickly as the coach lurched forward to begin the final part of its journey.
The conversation between the two men recommenced. They enjoyed their meal as Thomas Clarkson detailed the trials the Society had been put through to become the champion of the African. The corks had been drawn from the cold wine that together with the food and the extra space inside made for a more pleasant journey.
The coach rattled to a halt at the turnpike gate at Prescott, the final toll before Liverpool.
‘Perhaps an hour, or an hour and a half, Thomas, and we will be in Liverpool.’
‘I feel as if I have pulled this coach most of the way on my own,’ replied Thomas. ‘My back is so stiff.’
A crack of the whip and a cry from the driver heralded the start of their entry into Prescott. The pace of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles quickened. The horses knew how close they were to the end of the journey. Eventually Prescott dropped behind as they increased speed. The road descended gently towards Liverpool.
‘At this rate we will be in Liverpool before dark,’ commented Thomas.
‘Half an hour at the most, Thomas. We have just passed the Old Swan. I can smell the river from here. Some believe it to be a wretched smell, but to me it is the smell of Liverpool.’
William leaned out of the window to get a clearer view of his home town. He could see yellow flares chasing away the darkness as people lit lamps in their homes. The constant smoke hanging over the town turned the last of the daylight into an early dusk. The nearer they got to the river, the more people they passed on the road. He heard the hawkers as they shouted their wares, and the aroma of roasted chestnuts made his mouth water.
Darkness was upon them when the journey ended in Castle Street, near the site of old Liverpool Castle. A few urchins met the coach in the hope of making a copper or two from carrying a passenger’s bag. They were disappointed when they realised the coach was the Mail Coach, and not the regular coach. They knew the Mail Coach never carried many passengers. They could make a shilling or more from the regular coach, with its twelve or fifteen passengers. The naval officer appeared strong enough to carry his own bag, so all but one boy drifted away.
‘You, boy, carry my bag for thre’ pence.’
The young boy grinned and ran to collect William’s bag.
‘Captain,’ saluted the urchin in an exaggerated manner. He sat in the dust next to the bag and waited for William’s directions.
‘William, will you be going to your parent’s home tonight?’ asked Thomas.
‘I’ll get a hackney and surprise father. Thank you for your company, Sir, I have learnt a great deal from you. My new knowledge will be shared with others.’ He shook hands with Thomas and gestured to the urchin to follow. The boy and William crossed the road to where a hackney cab waited.
‘Driver, do you know the Kings’ residence in Tythe Barn Street?’
‘Aye, Captain, I do.’
‘Take me there,’ said William, and climbed into the vehicle.
The boy handed William’s bag to the driver, turned and saluted. ‘All stowed, Captain,’ he cried in a voice that mimicked the driver.
William laughed and dropped some coins onto the boy’s outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, lad.’
As the cab pulled away, the driver gave a slight flick to his long whip and caught the boy on the thigh of his leg. The boy yelped like a small dog.
‘Don’t you mimic me, you little imp. Next time you’ll get a thrashing.’
The horse clip-clopped its way towards Tythe Barn Street. William watched the boy pick up a lump of horse dung and throw it at the driver. It fell short, but the scene made him realise he was back in Liverpool. His head nodded in sleep as the cab came to a halt in front of the building of King and Son, Ship Owners and Trade Merchants.
‘We have arrived, Sir,’ said the driver. William alighted and accepted his bag from the driver. He studied the home he had known from his childhood, remembering how it was always bright and light. Now it was in darkness and only a small light was visible downstairs.
He banged on the door and shouted. Only then did the small light approach the front door. The door opened a little to allow a pair of sagging eyes to peer at him.
‘Open up, man. It’s cold out here.’
‘We are closed, Sir. Please come back in the morning.’
‘I am William King, George King’s son,’ said William, pushing at the door. It gave under pressure and the sagging eyes disappeared as the watchman was pushed back.
‘Here, you cannot come in here. We are closed, Sir, and if you don’t leave, I will have to call the Night Watch.’
‘Give me the light, please.’
The old man, too old and frail to challenge the officer, handed over the lit candle.
‘Thank you. Who are you?’ William asked, allowing the light to fall on his uniform.
‘I am the company’s watchman.’
William held the light towards the watchman.
‘You’re new.’
‘Not new, Sir, I’ve had the honour to work for Mr King for two year past, come this Christmas.’
‘I am your master’s son, Lieutenant William King. Where is my father?’
‘Oh dear, Mr King will not be back until tomorrow.’
William could see that the layout of the offices appeared much the same as before he left. Perhaps there was a little more style, and the office did appear a lot cleaner than he remembered. He made his way to the stairs. Using the candle, he lit a number of the wall lights, which allowed him to take in the whole scene. He remembered the game he used to play called stair jumping.
Start on the bottom step, jump down, and climb up an extra step, jump down again, and then add another step, and then another, until he could jump down ten or twelve stairs. The sound of the thud each time he landed at the bottom eventually brought his father out of his office to shout about the noise. The clerks didn’t like the jumping either, because each thud vibrated their ink bottles and sometimes caused a spill. A manifest of ink blots, or mistakes, would mean staying back in the evening to rewrite the whole sheet. A jumping child was a great distraction.
He blew out the candle and picked up one of the lit lamps. The watchman watched William while wringing his hands in a repeated washing motion.
William took the stairs two at a time and soon found himself in the corridor of the first floor.
This floor contained the dining room, library and kitchen. He walked along the corridor to the next flight of stairs. On the next floor were his old bedroom and his father’s bedroom and study. The level above contained the servants’ quarters. He thought it unusual not to hear the chatter of the servants. There used to be much more furniture than he could see, and the atmosphere gave the impression of abandonment.
In his own bedroom, he held up the light and saw that his bed and furniture were as he had left them so long ago. Except for the dust over everything he might not have been away. He thought that this was the only room that appeared normal, apart from the company offices at street level. He felt chilled and pulled his cloak tighter around his body. He was unsure whether the atmosphere of this apparently deserted house or the temperature caused the chill.
William made his way back to the office area and the old watchman. ‘The house doesn’t feel as if anyone has lived here for some time.’
‘Aye, Sir. Mr King took all the servants and left to live in his new home. I have been left here to keep an eye on the place.’
‘Where has my father gone?’
‘He is in a big mansi
on outside of town.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘I do not know, Sir, I have never been out of town. I only know the river and streets hereabout.’
‘Does the Pen and Wig still rent rooms?’
‘Aye, Sir, they do.’
‘Will you get a hackney to take me there?’
‘I’ll go and fetch one now,’ answered the old man, and limped his way slowly to the door.
After the watchman left, William wandered from office to office inspecting the few papers available. He found papers that provided enough information for him to note that things had changed. He had a strange sensation that the changes were not for the better.
The records he’d seen showed that the company still exported manufactured goods from Manchester, but they also shipped out a lot of gunpowder and muskets.
Strange, he thought, there is little call for this type of cargo on the Baltic trade. The Irish immigrant trade is more a passenger service than a trading voyage, so why the weapons?
He put the papers back when he heard the watchman return.
‘Captain, Sir, I have a hackney outside,’ puffed the watchman. The man was gasping for breath after his efforts.
‘Thank you,’ said William, and slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the front door.
‘I’d be obliged if you would not mention my visit to Mr King. I wish to surprise him tomorrow.’
‘As you wish, Sir, my lips are sealed,’ grinned the old man, knuckling his forehead.
‘For your trouble,’ said William, and dropped a shilling into the claw-like hand of the watchman.
‘Thank ye. Sir, thank ye very much’
William pulled his weary body in to yet another cab. ‘Pen and Wig, driver.’
‘Sir,’ answered the driver, and touched his horse with the end of his long whip.
Chapter Eight
Prodigal Son
December 1805
Thomas Clarkson peered through his bedroom window at the Pen and Wig and scratched an itch on his chest. Why did it always rain when he visited Liverpool? Perhaps the rain was a reflection on the meanness of the people. No matter how many churches they built, even God hated the place. The African trade was the largest business in town, so was it any wonder God made it so dreary? The window rattled as the wind blew the rain against the glass. He turned from the window, allowing the curtain to fall back into place.
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