Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Having heard Mr. Burnham out, and learned the details of his liberation, Mr. Johnson took a moment to consider. Then did he give it as his opinion that, in all truth, the only connection he could see between the Somerset case and the tale he had just heard was that both had taken advantage of their presence in England to claim their freedom.

“Of course,” said Mr. Burnham, “there is the contradiction in English law: How can slavery be prohibited here, while in English colonies it is permitted, though all the other laws of England are there strictly enforced?”

“And how can it be,” said Mr. Johnson, “that when a black man or woman travels from, let us say, Jamaica to London, he or she is not, as one might suppose, subject to the laws of England?”

“But in some curious way,” said Mr. Burnham, continuing the thought, “remains defined in his state by the laws of the land he left behind. Exactly!”

Samuel Johnson said nothing for a considerable space of time. Rather, he sat masticating with the same deep seriousness that he had shown some minutes before as he chewed his way through his first serving of Annie’s roast of beef.

Clarissa, who sat cross the table from me, looked first at him and then at me, signaling to me with her uplifted eyebrows that she feared that something might be amiss with our distinguished guest.

Perhaps fearing the same, Mr. Burnham leaned forward and asked most politely, “What would you be thinking now, sir — that is, if I might ask.”

“Oh, you may ask, certainly you may, sir. I am not one who is noted for keeping his thoughts to himself — no indeed.” He hesitated but a moment, and then came out with it: “I could not but note among the details of James Somerset’s background that he was held as a slave in Massachusetts by that Scotsman who brought him to England.”

“And what of that, sir?”

“Why, do you not see the irony in that, however unintended it may be? It is those ‘sons of liberty’ in the North American colonies who yell loudest for freedom that are most avid in protecting their putative rights to keep slaves.”

“Indeed sir,” said Mr. Burnham, ” your point is well taken. There is, to be sure, a certain inconsistency there, to say the least.”

“To say the least,” echoed Mr. Johnson in firm agreement. “I read from time to time of the continuing flow of Negroes northward to Canada where slavery is not tolerated, and in truth, I applaud them. I have heard of slave rebellions on various islands in the West Indies. None has succeeded to my knowledge, and I call that a pity.”

There came from Lady Katherine the unmistakable sound of a sudden intake of breath, which expressed her shock at Mr. Johnson’s declaration. Yet there was an even greater shock to come.

Mr. Johnson rose from his place and lifted his glass to the table.

“I propose a toast,” said he, “to the next insurrection of slaves in the West Indies that it may succeed.”

Mr. Burnham was on his feet in an instant, as were Annie and Clarissa, their glasses raised high. Only Sir John, Lady Katherine, and I retained our seats and left our glasses on the table. Though she, I think, had made her feelings clear in this matter, I know that I remained seated simply as a gesture of solidarity with Sir John, who would plainly decline to join in the toast offered by his guest. Nevertheless, the toast was drunk, the glasses were returned to the table, and all resumed their places. There were sheepish looks and downcast eyes.

Even Mr. Johnson who, one would guess, had never experienced embarrassment in his life, regarded Sir John with a little uncertainty.

“I hope, Sir John, that I have not offended you,” said he.

“Not in the least, Mr. Johnson.”

“I could not but notice that you did not join in the toast I offered.”

“No, I did not.”

“May I ask why, sir? I am eager to know.” And indeed, as he thrust his great head forward, he did appear eager. He even laid aside his knife and fork that he might give full attention to Sir John.

“To put it bluntly,” said Sir John, “my position as magistrate would not permit it. A magistrate is, in a modest way, a judge, but he is also responsible for keeping order. And let me tell you, Mr. Johnson, and you, Mr. Burnham, that I place great value upon order.”

“Ah, Sir John,” said Mr. Burnham in a most schoolmasterly manner, “but do you value order over justice?”

“No, I grant you, sir, that with reference to the matter at hand, there can be no doubt that a great wrong has been done to the Africans who have been taken from their homes, transported across the sea, and sold into slavery, and wrong it continues to be. But I believe it will be rectified soon or eventually — though not by revolt, insurrection, nor by rebellion, or other violent means. I am opposed to such. They offend my sense of order. And more important, they have unpredictable results and seldom accomplish the goals intended. More often than not, they lead to chaos and a situation worse than the one which precipitated the violence. In short, I oppose such means because they do not work. They harden the hearts of those in power against the very injustices they were meant to remedy. No, great injustices are best treated by legislation or in the courts. And such benevolent attention is most likely to be given when order prevails. Thus I stand on the side of order.”

While I half-expected the table to burst into applause at his concluding words, I heard, rather, a discreet clearing of the throat from Mr. Burnham and light coughs from Mr. Johnson. I wanted dearly to know what, if anything, could be said in rejoinder to such words. Nevertheless, I had to leave the table. From a time just after Mr. Burnham’s question to Sir John until that very moment, I had heard a series of knocks upon the kitchen door, insistent yet respectful. I could not further delay responding. Excusing myself hastily, I muttered something about “the door” and ran off to the kitchen.

I threw open the door and found Benjamin Bailey there. He, I knew, would not come knocking with something frivolous to report. (For that matter, none of the Bow Street Runners would have done so — not even the latest, Constable Patley.)

“I’d begun to wonder if there was anyone up here,” said he.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Bailey. We’ve guests. Sir John was addressing the table, and I didn’t want to leave whilst he was speaking.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t’ve wanted you to do that,” said he, clearly appalled at such a notion.

“What have you to report? I’ll pass it right on to him.”

“A yes, well, it’s most peculiar, it is, but there’s been another robbery. “

“Same district? Same robbers?”

“That’s the part that’s most peculiar. It’s the same house as the last.”

“The same house? The Trezavant residence?”

“Yes,” said he, “oh yes, but it wasn’t the same robbers — not the Africans, anyways. Or at least there wasn’t any sign of them this time. No, the lady of the house, she just went to look over her jewels — and they wasn’t there where she kept them. They was gone.”

“A burglary?”

“I don’t know. Nobody seems to know when they were taken- or by whom.” He stopped at that point and frowned. “One of the servants is missing, though.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. One of the footmen ran to tell me, then went back to the house before I could get any more from him.”

“Well,” said I to him, “just give me a moment. I’ll tell Sir John, and then get my hat.”

As it came about, however, the trip to the Trezavant residence was made in a coach well-packed with passengers. Not only did Mr. Bailey and I sit left and right upon the padded bench in the cab directly behind the driver, but Mr. Burnham sat between us as well, still bitterly complaining that he would not be allowed to accompany all into the Trezavant house. Across from us three sat Mr. Johnson and Sir John, filling their bench seat completely.