Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

In short, I instructed myself well. The question I asked myself later was why I had not followed my instructions.

“Uh, Mr. Burnham,” said I, approaching him with a smile upon my face, “I have an invitation to extend to you from Sir John.”

“Why, what a pleasant surprise,” said he, returning my smile. “What is the nature of the invitation? Is it for dinner? For supper?”

“Neither, I fear. He wishes you to come to him after his court session is done.”

“To ask me a few questions?”

“Well … yes. I suppose he will do that.”

“About the recent robberies which were supposedly done by men of my color?”

“Uh … some questions about that, and some questions about other matters of a more general nature.”

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Burnham, considering the matter. “Have I a choice?”

“Of course,” said I. “You may come or not, as you wish. But Sir John wishes earnestly to speak with you, and since, because of his wound, he cannot come to you, he hoped you might come to him.”

“If that is the case, then I should be most happy to come.” He said it with a great dazzling smile, thus relieving me considerably.

Of our return to Bow Street, there is but one event worthy of report. It so happened that we chose a route which led us down Little Jermyn Street and past the Trezavant residence. Was it my thought to do so? I hope it was not, for had we but taken another route, we should have thereby avoided a good deal of trouble and a bit of suffering, as well.

We went down the broad walkway, the three of us — Mr. Burnham to the outside, I to the inside, and Annie between us. As I recall, we talked of a number of matters along the way, and I believe that as it happened we were discussing the robbery which had taken place on that very street. I noted that just ahead of us a hackney was stopped before the Trezavant house. I called the attention of my companions to this circumstance, and we fell silent as we approached the place. And it was a good thing that we did so, for just as we were about to pass, the door to the house opened and out came Mr. Thomas Trezavant. He moved ponderously down the stairs, shifting his great weight with care from one step to the next until he reached the bottom. There he planted his feet firmly and looked at us as we walked by. In my haste I have written that he looked at “us.” Not so. He stared openly and in a most hostile manner at Mr. Burnham and at him alone. Even when I attempted to divert Mr. Trezavant’s attention by greeting him in a bright and friendly way, he stared on, acknowledging me only with a grunt.

Not a word passed among the three of us until we were well out of earshot. But then Annie broke the silence, saying, “Did you ever see such a look as he gave you, Mr. Burnham? If looks could kill, you’d be lying dead before his front door.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Burnham. “He seems to have blamed the entire race for his misfortune.”

We talked of it a bit more as we walked on, but by the time we reached St. James Square, we were on to more pleasant matters. Though I cannot speak for the other two, I had quite forgotten the incident by the time we reached Number 4 Bow Street. There Annie left us, climbing the stairs to the kitchen as we continued on to meet Sir John in his chambers. Mr. Burnham was openly interested in the area named by Sir John the “backstage” of his court — and particularly was he fascinated by the strong room. He scrutinized the two prisoners inside in such a way that he seemed to be wondering what felony they might have committed to have brought them to such a place. I greeted Mr. Marsden, the clerk, and Mr. Fuller, the jailer, politely and with a smile. Mr. Marsden returned it in kind; Mr. Fuller, who seemed to have cultivated a dislike for me, merely scowled.

Sir John was standing behind his desk when we passed through the open door to his chambers. He extended his right hand in a gesture of friendship.

“Ah, Mr. Burnham, is it you?” said he as the tutor took his hand and shook it warmly.

“It is I, Sir John, right enough,” said Mr. Burnham. “And quite flattered I am at your invitation. How may I help you?”

“Do sit down.” He gestured at the chair which he knew very well was placed just opposite him beyond the desk. Delaying a moment, he settled into his own chair, leaned forward, and said in a serious manner, “You may help me, sir, by answering a few questions.”

“As you like, Sir John, anything at all.”

“Mr. Burnham, I have a friend named Moses Martinez, who is a Jew. When I have questions regarding the Jews, individual or in the aggregate, I ask him. But as you know, I have now had a troubling matter involving those of the African race put before me. Since I know no one but you of that race, I’m afraid I must turn to you for such information as I need.”

“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.”