Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

Sir John nodded and was respectfully silent for a brief time. “I am happy to hear of the improvement in your health,” said Sir John. “ But to bring you back to the matter at hand, I believe you said that there were two reasons for which you were advised to collect affidavits. So far we have heard of only one. “

“What? Oh, yes, of course, the second reason. Mr. Bumbiy, our solicitor, advised me that it would be in my interest to put together as many supporting proofs as possible because there would be those who would oppose my claim. He seemed quite certain that it would be so, and I must say that the existence of this commission demonstrates the sagacity of his opinion.”

Quite unexpectedly and perhaps a bit inappropriately, Mr. Trezavant burst out laughing at that. “It does, rather, does it not?” he blurted out. But the scolding looks he then received silenced him quickly, Sir John had no choice but to bide his time through this interruption. At last, however, things did quieten down once again, and Sir John leaned forward to deliver his next question.

“Sir, each of these proofs you collected — with, by the bye, the help of your friend Mr. Bolton — each of them constitutes a separate recognition, and as such is quite important. But all are not equally significant. Most important to your cause was the affidavit given you by Margaret Paltrow, your putative mother. Am I correct in this?”

“Oh, most certainly.”

“She not only signed an affidavit in your favor, but also let it be known to all who would listen that she indeed had regained her long-lost son. Tell me, sir, how did it happen that she regarded you as her long-lost son?”

The claimant, who had been quite forthcoming in his answers, hesitated a considerable time before attempting to respond. “We were not,” said he, hesitating once again, “in communication.”

“Not in communication?” echoed Sir John. “Have I heard you right? Am I to understand that during that entire period in which you were in the North American colonies, you failed to write your mother?”

“That. . is correct.”

“How do you account for that? “

Tears welled in the young mans eyes. I was altogether astounded: They seemed quite real. “You must understand my situation,” said he. “It was my misfortune to be born the younger son. As it became apparent that Christopher Paltrow, Lord Laningham, would have no male heir, he lavished more and more attention upon my elder brother, to whom his title and wealth would fall. Its true he did also provide for my education, but upon my leaving Oxford, I knew that with my father dead, I could depend upon myself and no other to see me through this life. My mother was considerably reduced in her widowhood. She and I suffered most by these dreadful circumstances of primogeniture. I vowed to her when I set off for North America that I would make my fortune there and return to deliver her from her shameful state there in Bath. The pity was, I was never able to do so. I felt I had betrayed her by my inadequacy. In short, I felt ashamed that I was unable to keep my vow to her, so ashamed indeed that I could never bring myself to write her and confess my failure. I know that I should have. I am now even more greatly ashamed because of it. I can only take some solace in the fact that when at last we did meet after that long separation, she forgave me completely, and without reservation welcomed me back like the prodigal returned — all this before she had even heard tell of the improvement in my prospects.”

“You tell that quite movingly,” said Sir John. “It is a pity that she died shortly thereafter. “

“A pity? Nay, sir, it is a great tragedy.”

“As you say.” Sir John nodded solemnly. “I have but a few more questions for you.”

“And what are they?”

“Could you tell us how it was that you heard of your brother’s death?”

“I learned of it first from a newspaper in the city of Philadelphia. The matter was much discussed in that city, which is quite dominated by the Society of Friends.”

“The Quakers, as they are popularly known?”

“Just so. My brothers crimes were held as an example of the extreme corruption of the aristocracy.”

“And what opinion had you of them?”

“His crimes? Why something of the same sort, I suppose, in the beginning. You must understand that there was little between him and me in the way of love or even respect. Had he come to America, as I did, he would have perished, for he would have played the gentleman rather than attempt any real labor. That was how he lived his life — as one specially blessed, excused from all manner of earthly toil. He lived off the kindness of our uncle, then married and lived off his wife’s fortune, and at last, with the death of our father, he naturally inherited all and lived off that. It was then, by the bye, that he turned our mother out and installed her in those squalid little rooms in Bath. Imagine! His own mother! I believe he was encouraged in this by that wife of his.”

“Hmmm. . well, yes,” said Sir John mildly, “but, sir, you told us that in the beginning you felt as many did in that colonial city of Philadelphia regarding your brother, but by so saying, that indicated a later change of opinion. Could you describe that change? “

“It was a change of attitude, rather. I was so chagrined to see the name I bore linked to his that I found myself denying that he was any relation of mine. I told myself that this was the only proper attitude to take toward such monstrous behavior; I could make no excuse for it or for him. I thought at first I would make no effort to claim the title because of the shame that would accompany it. But then, as I thought upon it, I saw that I could do much to ease my mother’s last years. I saw that if I were to come forward with my claim I might demonstrate to these colonials and, for that matter, to all true-born Englishmen, that it was possible for a nobleman to live a truly noble life.”

“And therefore come forward you did. How long would you say that this change of heart required? You were a bit late in organizing your claim, after all.”

“I suppose I have been,” said he. “But when you consider the distance between here and North America, and the time required to cover such distance, I would say I have come along about as quickly as anyone might.”

Sir John emitted a considerable sigh. “I suppose you are right. And I suppose, too, that I have now exhausted my store of questions. But as I believe Lord Mansfield mentioned, the gentleman who entered with me would now also like to put to you some questions. Will you consent to that?”

“Indeed I will,” said the claimant, looking for the first time a bit uncomfortable, even perhaps slightly embarrassed. “But I confess,” he continued, “I feel a call of nature. Could you direct me to the necessary?”

This question, addressed to Lord Mansfield, was answered by him as he pulled the sash located in a corner of the room: “I’ll have one of the servants show you the way to the water closet.”

Immediately, one of the footmen appeared, bowed at the order given him by his master, and led the claimant from the room. Their footsteps echoed in the great house. There was naught but silence in Lord Mansfield’s study. I looked about me and noted the doleful expressions worn by those on the commission; only Sir Patrick Spenser remained unmoved by what he had witnessed.

“Well,” said Lord Mansfield, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, “what did you think of him?”

His question fell like a stone down a deep well. There was a long wait until at last came the answering splash: “He was very good, wasn’t he?” The response came from Mr. Hemmings, who seemed quite as glum as the rest.