Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“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.”

After he had quite stunned us all, Mr. Trezavant turned round and stamped out of the magistrate’s chambers (thus exhibiting a sense of the dramatic that I had not known he possessed). In his haste, he bumped Mr. Marsden aside once again. The clerk stared after him in a most puzzled manner.

“Sorry about that, sir,” said he. “I just couldn’t hold him back.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Sir John. “That fellow has been a trial to me from the moment I met him.”

As the clerk disappeared, Mr. Burnham rose from his chair in a manner I could only describe as cautious and addressed Sir John: “And what about me? Shall I, too, think nothing of it?”

“Well, perhaps a bit more than nothing — but not a great deal more. I presume you know where you were last night? “

“Yes — yes, of course I do.”

“And where was that, sir?”

“Why …” He hesitated — not so long as to make one suspicious, but long enough to cause notice. “Why, I remained in the house all evening. I was reading in my room, so I was. That’s what I was doing until Jeremy here knocked upon the door, looking for the loan of Mr. Bilbo’s coach.”

“When was that, Jeremy?” Sir John asked of me.

“It must have been near midnight,” said I. “Near it but not yet upon it.”

“But by then,” said he, “the robbers had come and gone, the constables had been notified, and Patley had gone to fetch you. Is that not so?”

“Well …yes sir.”

“Perhaps you could find one or two others who could vouch for your presence in the house during the evening, Mr. Burnham.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can.” It was said with certainty. “Master Bunkins? The coachmen?”

“They would do very well, sir,” said the magistrate. “I shall send Jeremy by the residence to talk with them.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, what? I do not understand, sir.”

“Am I to be detained?”

“By no means, Mr. Burnham. Jeremy here made it clear that Mr. Trezavant was quite drunk, both during and after his home was invaded by that band of brigands. My chief constable, Mr. Bailey, seconded that in his written report. I doubt that in such a state he could retain the memory of his assailants. And quite frankly, even believing a sober Mr. Trezavant would call for a greater leap of faith than I am capable of. You are free to go, sir. “

Though Sir John could not see the bow Mr. Burnham made him, it was a pretty one; no mere bob of the head. Bending at the waist, the tutor dropped down quite low, and in this curious posture he spoke: “I thank you for your trust in me.” Then, straightening to his considerable height, he turned and started for the door.