“That seems quite reasonable.”
The two men made an interesting study in contrasts. Sir John, straining forward, his fingers intertwined; and Robert Burnham, relaxed, almost casual, as he leaned back in his chair and waited for the magistrate’s questions. It struck me then that perhaps Mr. Burnham was not taking the occasion with sufficient gravity.
“How has it come to pass that there are suddenly so many Africans here in London? Oh, and by the bye, how many are here? Have you any idea? “
“I have it on good authority that there are roughly fourteen thousand of us in England, and surely, most are in London.”
“Oh, so many? But no doubt you’re right,” Sir John agreed. “And London is probably where most are.”
“Still,” said Mr. Burnham, “I would take exception to your use of the word ‘suddenly’ I would wager there have been black faces here ever since English ships began sailing around Africa to reach the Orient. Two centuries, at least.”
“Yes, but there is a contradiction even in the presence of Africans in England. They are, or were, slaves, and slavery has been banned in England since the thirteenth century.”
Mr. Burnham jumped forward in his chair, eager to make his point: “Exactly! A contradiction! And it is on that contradiction that the argument rests for the freedom of them all. It is on that contradiction that I argued my own claim of freedom to my father.”
“Oh? That’s a story I must hear,” said Sir John. “That is, sir, if you’ve no objection to telling it.”
“None at all, for it is in itself a good example of certain aspects of this confused situation.”
“Pray proceed.”
“I came to London as many, or perhaps most, of those of my color have come in this century. Which is to say, we were brought here by our white masters. I was different from all but a few in that my master was my father, and he raised me as a son and not as a slave. I was as well-educated as anyone could be in Jamaica, and when my father married an English widow with children of her own, I served as their tutor. I had them all reading by the age of seven.”
That last he said quite proudly, and there he paused, a smile upon his face, as if reflecting upon his first days as a teacher.
“And then?” prompted Sir John.
“And then,” said Mr. Burnham, “we all traveled together from Jamaica to London. My father’s business was to secure a loan with which to expand his holdings in the Caribbean. He had become a rich man and wished to become richer. He had no difficulty securing the loan, but in the course of my stay here I became acquainted with the contradiction we have been discussing. I went to my father and informed him that since we were in a land in which one human being’s right to own another was not recognized, I would be within my rights to demand my freedom. He was taken aback and a bit hurt to learn that I wished my freedom in London — and not in Kingston, as he offered. But once he became convinced that this was my desire, he had a document of manumission written out by a lawyer and settled a not inconsiderable sum upon me.”
“You are fortunate to have such a father,” said Sir John.
“Indeed I know that — and he knows I know, for we write once a month, exchanging news and our views upon the great matters of the world. It may interest you to know that, in principle at least, he is opposed to slavery.”
“It interests me, but it does not surprise me. Many of those who engage in immoral practices justify themselves saying that it is naught but economic necessity forces them to do so. They often declare that, given their preference, they would be in a more respectable line of endeavor.”
This was said by Sir John in a rather cool manner. Mr. Burnham had no immediate response. He threw a glance in my direction, the first he had given me since he had begun his talk with Sir John. I had seen him previously in profile, and now for the first time in full-face; he did not look happy.
“My father is a moral man,” said he at last.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. But you also said he was a rich man, did you not? I believe your phrase was, ‘he was a rich man who wished to become richer’ — and I’m sure he has. But not so rich as to free all his slaves.”
“Perhaps someday he will,” Mr. Burnham said suddenly, in an almost defiant voice. But he continued in a more reasonable tone, “I used my own story simply as an example, Sir John. Others of my color have claimed their freedom as I did, and have been shipped back to Jamaica in irons, or have been sold outright to another master, right here in England. Still others, knowing their ambiguous legal situation, have simply kept silent and run away at the first opportunity.”
“Yes, and there have been cases before our courts which have treated aspects of this … this contradiction we have been discussing. There is, in fact, a case before the Lord Chief Justice that — ”
“As I well know,” interrupted Mr. Burnham eagerly. “The Somerset case* may indeed put an end to slavery here and in the colonies.”
I sensed the excitement in him regarding this matter of law. He was not alone in this. All London was talking of it during that spring of 1772.
The two had sometime earlier exchanged their conversational attitudes. Mr. Burnham now sat forward in his chair, fully absorbed in the matters they discussed. Though similarly absorbed, Sir John had adopted a more relaxed style; leaning as far back as he might, rubbing his chin in a considering manner.
Far down the hall, I heard the door to the street slam shut. Had someone departed? Entered?
“It may be so, as you say, that this trial will determine a great deal,” said Sir John. “But knowing Lord Mansfield as well as I do, it may well be that it is decided narrowly upon the facts of the case. He does not believe in deciding great social and political issues in a court of law.”
There were heavy footsteps down the hall. Though the Lord Chief Justice often made his entrance in just such a way, the pace of the footsteps — slow and deliberate — was not his. Sir John frowned at the anticipated interruption.
Mr. Burnham, also frowning, spoke up in response: “Well, sir, all I can say is that I hope that you are wrong.”
Then did Mr. Marsden’s voice come to us as he attempted to intervene. He offered to announce the unknown guest. Yet the footsteps continued plodding heavily toward the magistrate’s chambers.
At last the visitor appeared, barging through the door as he pushed aside Mr. Marsden, squeezing in. It was a figure of great proportions. Indeed it was Mr. Trezavant, dressed just as he was when we had passed him earlier, yet a good deal more florid in the face, breathing heavily as he stood for a moment, surveying the room.
“Sir John,” he began — but got little further.
“Mr. Trezavant, is it you? What have you to discuss that is of such importance that it cannot wait for my clerk, Mr. Marsden, to announce you.’
*More of this later, reader.
That should have intimidated him, but it did not. He held his ground, and he continued in a loud voice, near shouting at us across the room: “I came here to tell you that I saw your young assistant consorting with a criminal, but now I understand better. He has brought the fellow to you, has he not? Has an arrest been made? Are you interrogating the culprit?”
“Sir, you make no sense at all. I have no notion of what you mean — no, not the slightest.”
“Why, I saw these two in company with a young woman as they passed by my home in Little Jermyn Street. I could hardly believe my eyes.”
“Please make yourself clear.”
“This man, the African, him it was who led the band of thieves who robbed my home of its treasures, assaulted me, and caused my butler to collapse in an apoplectic attack.”
Having made the accusation, he pointed across the room at Mr. Burnham, just so there should be no mistake. “I demand that he be held and bound over for trial. I will see this man hanged, or know the why and wherefore of it. Sir John,” he said, fairly shouting it out, “I leave this up to you.”