Bruce Alexander: The Color of Death

However, he regretted that he had not the time to learn it thoroughly, and so he put me forward to Sir John as file clerk. That came as an additional duty — one in addition, that is, to serving Sir John as amanuensis, doing the buying for the household each day in Covent Garden, and running every conceivable errand for the court. When, I wondered, was I to find time to read for the bar? Besides, tending the files was not merely onerous, it was also slightly embarrassing. What healthy young lad would wish to be a file clerk? When I expressed myself in this regard to Clarissa, she did little more than snigger — hence, my hostility toward her.

Yet as we two tramped along in silence, I thought once again of what Sir John had said about acting as an elder brother to Clarissa. I thought I knew what he meant by that, but I was not absolutely sure. In my experience, elder brothers were as often cruel to younger sisters as they were kind. But Sir John, of course, was urging me to be protective, instructive, and friendly to her. All that, I suppose, was within my power. Still, if he were suggesting that I offer her brotherly love, then that surely would be quite beyond me. Why, even if she were to -

“Where was it that you said he lived?” Clarissa asked, interrupting my ponderings as she had often enough done before.

“Johnson’s Court,” said I.

“Just imagine, having the street where you live named after you. That would indeed be fame.”

“So it would be, but I fear it is a distinction that Mr. Johnson has not yet achieved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Johnson’s Court it was called before he moved there, and so it will be known when he departs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am,” said I a bit smugly. “I would not make such a statement unless I were certain of my facts.”

She gave me a hard look but said nothing. Our destination lay just off Fleet Street. We made our way there along the Strand. The crowd in the walkway, men and women on their way to their day’s labor, bumped and jostled us so that we could not move much faster than a shuffle.

Pressed toward me, she asked in something more than a whisper, “Have you been there often?”

“Where?”

“You know where! To see Mr. Johnson.”

“Often enough.”

“What is he like?”

“Why … that is … well …” How could one describe Samuel Johnson? He was, perhaps, unique, but … “Well, you know, in his manner he is not unlike Sir John — that is, in his deliberate style of speech, and their voices, too, are somewhat alike.”

“Deep?”

“Johnson’s is the deeper.”

Then did I laugh, startled by the picture that flashed before my inner eye. It was quite like that of Mr. Johnson, yet it was one of a man a bit younger, and even more corpulent. The laugh was one of surprise only, for that face brought with it the deepest associations of unhappiness.

With all this I had received a frown from Clarissa. “What has struck you as funny?” she asked.

“No, not funny — nothing of the kind. For an instant, I saw a face from the past resembling Johnson — a deacon in my village named Kercheval. When my father …” I hesitated. “When my father died, Mr. Kercheval came for me to take me to the magistrate who would determine my future.”

“Your future was the parish workhouse,” said she. “You may be sure of that.”

“I must have supposed it, for at my first opportunity I broke away from Mr. Kercheval and ran away fast as ever I could.”

“And where did you go?”

“Why, here. To London.”

“And how did you come to meet Sir John?”

I had never told her the tale of my arrival in London: how I had been duped by a thief-taker and brought, falsely accused, before the magistrate’s court at Number 4 Bow Street, and how Sir John Fielding saw through this cruel deception and sent the conspirators on their way. Why had I withheld this from her? Was I too proud? Did I feel it would lower me somehow if the truth were known?

Well, whatever the reason, since we had by then passed along the Strand with Temple Bar in sight, and Johnson’s Court lay not so distant, I decided it was time to tell. The version she heard as we moved on, still buffeted by the crowd, was somewhat abbreviated — a summary, more or less — but the important facts were there. And by chance, when I had concluded, the turn for Johnson’s Court lay just ahead.

“Why then,” said she, having heard all, ” you came to Bow Street much as I did.”

“Indeed,” said I. “Had you thought otherwise?” I eased her round the corner into the quiet of the Court.

“I don’t know what I thought. You seemed so well settled that I — ”

When Clarissa failed to finish the sentence, I pointed toward Mr. Johnson’s door and guided her in that direction. “We’re here,” said I.

“What? Oh, I …yes, of course.”

I gave three stout thumps upon the door, and we did not wait long, for almost immediately came the sound of footsteps beyond. The door opened, and for a long moment I said not a word. Expecting to see Miss Williams or one of the other members of the household staff, I \vas surprised — taken aback, one might say — to see the face of a black man: young, smiling, and quite confident. He looked at me encouragingly, nodded, and waited for me to speak.

Clarissa stepped in then, saving me from further embarrassment. “We have come to see Mr. Johnson,” said she.

“Ah, well, is he expecting you?” His voice was pleasant enough and authentically that of a Londoner. But was there, perhaps, the hint of the island lilt to it that I heard from time to time in Mr. Burnham’s speech? Perhaps, and perhaps not.

“No, but I have with me a letter for Mr. Johnson from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court,” said I.

“I’d be happy to give it to him. You may leave it with me and consider it delivered.”

Would this be another contest of the wills of the kind which took place each time I delivered a letter to the Lord Chief Justice? I hoped not, indeed I did.

“I should be happy to do that,” said I to him, “but Sir John would like it read, and an immediate answer given — if at all possible.”

“Oh, it is possible,” said he, throwing open the door, “but you must wait a bit, for he is not long risen. Come in, come in, both of you, and we shall sit together and talk. I would like to make your acquaintance.”

Clarissa and I exchanged glances, and then, smiling, we entered. He led us into a small sitting room where I had previously waited upon occasion for the great man. Indicating a place for us on the settee, he took a chair by the door and asked our names. He introduced himself to us as Francis Barber.

“However,” said he, ” you may call me Frank.”

“We have not met before,” said I. “Have you recently joined Mr. Johnson’s household?”

“No, it would be better said, I recently rejoined the household. I’ve been away at school, you see.”

“Which school?” I asked, half expecting that I might be told that it was Oxford or Cambridge, for he was of a proper age. But would a black man attend one of the great universities? I thought not.

“It is a school run by a Monsieur Desmoulins, who is a Frenchman.”

Clarissa leaned forward eagerly. “And did you learn French from him? I should like to learn that language. It is a most beautiful tongue.”

“Oh, it is, right enough, and I did learn a bit of it, but I fear I had my hands full with Latin. And I must say, Greek was quite beyond me. They seemed useless to me. When would I meet an ancient Roman or Greek whom I might speak with?”

Clarissa and I, both autodidacts, agreed most emphatically, for such as we were, utility was all. (While I cannot speak for Clarissa, I know that today I would be less likely to dismiss those dead languages as useless.) But when he went further and declared all education “beyond plain reading, writing, and sums” to be excessive and unnecessary, then we were forced to demur.