Remember remember, p.15
Remember, Remember, page 15
—M. DE VOLTAIRE
Delphine’s fear is a suit of armour. She sheds it plate by plate as she distances herself from St James’s Square.
After Nick had led Lord Harvey away, she’d struggled for several pulse-pounding minutes with the ribbon mechanism before successfully closing the secret compartment of the curiosity cabinet. Only when she was satisfied that all the lord’s treasures appeared just as she had found them, did she slip out into the night.
Though the bird and the necklace are burning a hole in her pocket, the weight of Vincent’s trial is beginning to lift; at last, Delphine thinks he might win.
And that kind of news cannot wait until morning.
As she approaches the prison, she spies the spiked facade piercing the darkness. The portcullis is raised, set to bite.
Opening the door to the poky, candlelit galley, Delphine is greeted by the weighty tapster. Livey is sitting alone at a game of cards. He looks up at her from between hunched shoulders, head almost invisible beneath a whirl of smoke from his pipe, and says, ‘Evening, love. You here to see Mister Mourière again?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she coughs, squinting at him. ‘I have joyous news for him.’
‘We don’t have much of that around here. I’ll escort you.’
He gathers his playing cards, shuffles them into a neat pile and places them back down in their pewter tin on the table. ‘It was a losing game.’
‘Most of them are.’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He shrugs. ‘Patience is the right name for sure.’ Despite the brisk eventide, some of the ground floor cells have their doors open wide, illuminating tables where a dozen and a half prisoners are engaged in what seems to be a game night. Passing them on the way into the main block, Delphine glimpses their enjoyment playing Trictrac and Mississippi. While they swig from glinting tankards, belches and deep-bellied laughter tangle in the night air.
As they move around the prison, Livey continues to blow puffs of smoke out of his mouth and nose like a dragon. ‘Your fella seems to be getting a lot of visitors lately,’ he remarks casually. ‘Most do during their trial.’
Delphine wonders who he could mean. She’s about to ask when a dog yowls, bursting out of a nearby cell. Delphine springs out of the path of a huge grey mop, water flying from its mane as it hurtles past. Momentarily it’s followed by a soaking wet man, who chases the hound barefoot, wearing only a nightcap and a flapping, fur-covered banyan.
‘Bath night again, eh, James?’ Livey shouts after him.
The man flings a rude gesture over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
Delphine stifles a laugh. It’s fortunate that the Chief Justice allowed Vincent to remain on the wealthier side of the prison, and not in the squalor of a cell in Newgate or in that fetid box aboard the Ann and Mary. Livey clears his throat as they stop at Vincent’s door, and Delphine reaches for her coin purse. If she’s learned anything from her visits here, it is that everything has a cost.
She pulls out a shilling (her entire earnings for this week, minus Marion’s cut) and, with gracious resignation, pushes it into his hand. Twisting the key in the lock, he gives a final nod and says, ‘Vincent can escort you back down. Don’t stay too long, or you’ll have to pay for the night.’
Delphine raises her hand to knock, but Vincent’s already opening the door before her knuckles reach the wood – he must have overheard them in the corridor. He looks surprised to see her, but his confused frown quickly becomes a welcoming smile. ‘There’s a face I’m glad to see,’ he says, wrapping her in his arms. ‘What cheer, sister?’
Squeezing him tight, Delphine realises he’s much thinner than he once was. Still strong, but the muscles that once rose and fell like hills on his arms have eroded. His eyes, brown as earth, are still sunken from that tough day in court.
‘Did you come all this way alone?’ he says, reassuming the role of big brother. She imagines most incarcerated people would be impatient to discover what their visitor had brought for them – gifts, home comforts, word from friends. But Vincent is one of those rare personalities who will never ask anything of you except your safety.
‘I needed to speak with you before tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We found the contract.’
The fatigue in Vincent’s eyes falls away. ‘You mean that?’
‘Yes!’ She scoops up his hands in hers and tells him all about the documents. She was right to trust Nick – he’s not let them down so far, and Vincent deserves to share that hope. ‘Nick will present them to Lord Mansfield tomorrow. You’re going to win, Vincent. You’re going to win.’
‘Thank you, Delphine. I—’
A thunderous noise erupts outside the prison. They exchange a look, and Delphine knows that for just a small instant, he too is back at Ranelagh.
Fireworks.
On a darker day, she might have tensed up at the sound, deemed it a bad omen. A sign that their well-laid plans are about to go awry. But after the day’s earlier battles, the win claimed at 20 St James’s Square, she decides to see it as a new start.
They move to the window. It’s weeks before bonfire night, but the celebrations seem to start earlier every year. A gunpowder phoenix screeches through the sky, its tail soaring gold, followed by exploding white stars and crackling red fountains – casting the black city below in a devilish light.
They marvel at the display, and Delphine etches this moment into her memory: the good news she’s delivered, replacing the hurt from Ranelagh and the girl who broke her heart there.
When the colours fade to grey streaks in the darkened sky, leaving the air tinged with sulphur, Vincent pulls himself away from the window and walks over to his desk. It’s littered with scrunched parchment, writing equipment and a half-melted candle, dripping wax onto the woodwork. Vincent pushes a finger into the puddle to remove it before it dries.
‘I am so grateful to you and Nick,’ he says, rolling the soft wax between his fingertips. ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you before tomorrow. Before…’ His voice trails off as he sets the tiny ball onto one of the pieces of paper.
‘Go on,’ Delphine says, wondering where this is going. She senses he needs space, so she leans against the cell wall instead of going to him, shivering as her back touches the stone.
‘I have never been good with words.’ He shakes his head and laughs, a gesture laced with dark mirth. ‘But you’ve helped me realise something these past few months. About myself. When we were children, I never really told you how I was feeling, did I?’
There was never the chance. When Vincent’s mother left the plantation, Lord Harvey and the overseers gave him no time to mourn Abigail’s loss. For months after moving into her parents’ cabin, Vincent was stolid. No matter how many johnnycakes her mother fried, or how often her father tried to coax him into one of their games. It was like La Soufrière’s molten core brewed inside him, and if he let out even a flicker of emotion, he’d erupt.
‘But I want you to know that I do feel,’ he says. ‘Everything. I always have. It just always seemed wrong, or ungrateful, of me to voice it. Because we were the lucky ones: we never worked the fields, we got to go to England. To say we wanted more than that…’ His voice wavers, his hand clenching into a fist on the desk. ‘My mama told me never to show them my weaknesses. Your parents did, too. Because no matter what, you’ve got to keep fighting and moving, pushing everything down and carrying on. So I did. We both do.’
It’s as though Vincent is putting her most private thoughts into words. Countless times, she has needed to block out or ignore the pain until it becomes something manageable. But unlike Vincent, Delphine has always had someone to share that burden with afterwards: Pearl, Charity, and him.
Delphine wants to reach out to him, but instead, she feels for the bird in her pocket and grips the wood with her fingers. Vincent shuffles his feet as if trying to rebalance himself before continuing. ‘I thought that if I were as strong and brave as everyone said I was, then there would be no room for anything else within me. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like that. I don’t want to start my life like that. I just want to be… Me, I suppose. And I can’t do that unless I’ve told you everything I know, everything you deserved to know years ago.’ He clears his throat. ‘So I’ve written a letter for you. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. I was expecting to give you it tomorrow but…’ He trails off, expression torn.
Knowing the courage it took Vincent to say all that, Delphine feels a tender ache in her chest. She is so proud of who her brother is becoming, that he is finding the strength to express his vulnerabilities.
Though she wishes to hear more in this moment, she suspects right now he feels exposed – and he’s putting his trust in her not to push him too far. She says lightly, ‘Do you want to read it to me now?’
‘I did. I do, but saying all this out loud…’ He strains a smile. ‘It’s like there’s this vice that’s trying to strangle every word as it comes out. Um…’ He straightens and grabs a piece of paper from his desk.
‘Oi!’ Livey’s bark rips through the air between them. From outside the door he grumbles, ‘I did say you’ll have to pay if you decide to spend the night.’
Delphine swallows. Her time is running out – that shilling was all she had – and she still needs to give Vincent the bird. ‘We found some other things in Lord Harvey’s office, with the documents. Pearl’s necklace, and this.’
‘Pearl’s—’ Vincent blinks in surprise, but his mouth closes as Delphine reveals his mother’s gift. The letter falls from his fingers to the floor as he takes the bird from Delphine and turns it over in his hands. Though he’s looking down at it, he doesn’t seem to be seeing the carved creature.
‘So that’s why,’ is all he whispers.
‘Vincent?’ His eyes are glassy, far away. Clearly, he hadn’t known Lord Harvey still had the bird. Instantly she regrets burdening him with this knowledge before the trial was over. It was too much. Obviously it is too much. A thoughtless mistake. At last, she puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Vincent?’
‘I mean it,’ Livey growls, turning from innkeeper to prison warden in a breath. ‘Don’t make me come in there!’
Vincent is still absorbed in his thoughts. He says nothing, as though he’s not heard her or the guard. But Livey won’t let her stay a minute longer – she has to go. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says softly, ‘I shouldn’t have given you it.’
With Vincent’s body stiff as it is, she won’t move to hug him goodbye. Instead, she crouches to pick up the letter before she leaves.
‘Don’t,’ Vincent says, abruptly. His shoulders slump as he tightens his grip on the bird. ‘Don’t take it yet. There’s more I need to write.’
Chapter Sixteen
AN OPINION ON THE NEGRO CASE
Printed anonymously at the submitter’s request
How disgraceful of those who profess Christianity, and whose pride it is to be called civilised, to carry on trafficking in the human species; to make slaves of those whom Heaven created of the same flesh and blood, and who are equally with us the sons of God. This trade, I am sure, is repugnant to all the laws of Nature and Humanity, and I abhor any man who claims divine authority permits it. What power can make laws to punish those Blacks who refuse to obey their masters? Who are all too often treated worse than hounds? Surely Heaven will not look upon them as culpable in using all means to regain their liberty… I hope that the opinion of the Chief Justice today will be such, as will best agree with the good of mankind.
—LONDON GAZETTE
The morning sun brings Vincent’s day of judgment. Today’s session is due to commence at a quarter past ten, fifteen minutes later than previous court days, but by half past nine, the King’s Bench is already filled to bursting with chattering spectators. Today, the front rows, usually populated by robed white men, represent a broader cross-section of society: the conflicted, the curious and the concerned. None more so than Delphine, who is haphazardly perched on the end of the third row as, for the first time since the trial began, Nick hasn’t succeeded in reserving her a seat. She’d be more comfortable if the rather large Black man beside her would cease invading her space with his wide-spread legs.
Her unease grows with every guffaw of laughter, every click of a heel on the courtroom floor, every whiff of sweet perfume or musky cologne. There is no sign yet of Nick, nor of Lord Harvey. Delphine fiddles with the fabric of her emerald skirt – she tucked the betting slip among Nick’s hearing notes in his office this morning, but now she wishes she’d kept it safe in her pocket. She’s tempted to rush to the back room to find him herself when, at last, Mister Lyons appears, his eyes decorated with dark, sleepless circles that match his robe.
She’s never seen him this way, pale as if drained of all his passions, his walk stooped like his books are much heavier than they were yesterday. And there, barely a heartbeat behind him, is Lord Harvey. Smug as ever, in a newly powdered wig and vibrant red coat, with bright eyes that belong to someone half his age.
Lumps like caterpillars squirm in the back of Delphine’s throat. At this moment, Lord Harvey reminds her of a sasabonsam, a violent creature with pink skin and iron teeth that renews its strength by feeding on its victims. Those monsters only dwell in stories, but her former master must be something close – the self-satisfied wretch.
Oh God. If Nick has been with Lord Harvey all night, did the lord see through his ruse? Perhaps he discovered Nick’s theft and forced him to give back the documents. And if the evidence is not presented today, there’s almost nothing to compel the Chief Justice to grant Vincent’s release. Mansfield helped build the Empire’s economy. He would not threaten its strength because of one Black man.
How foolish she’d been to hope.
Nick doesn’t make eye contact with her as he sits. He’s betrayed them, then. And Vincent’s fate is sealed. What had Lord Harvey offered that was worth more than her brother’s life? The caterpillars transform into butterflies, flapping in her throat to get out.
A bang of the gavel silences the hum of the courtroom, and Vincent is led in. He’s unchained still, his features relaxed. The shock she gave him yesterday when she handed him the bird seems to have dissipated. There’s no urgency to his movements – the trial will begin, the Chief Justice will say his piece, and he will be freed: that is what they’d said last night. How Delphine wishes to just grab him and run.
Panic flashes on her brother’s face when he notices she’s not in her usual seat. He scans the crowd, his brightness returning only when he spots her. Delphine forces her lips to curve up into a smile. For a moment, she swears that he sees the lie behind it. But Vincent smiles back, unaware.
The second hit of the gavel punctuates the entrance of the Chief Justice.
In he walks, solemn as stone.
There’s a long silence after he sits down, as if he’s still pondering what is to come.
‘The ruling of Harvey vs Mourière will be made today. Unless – for the last time I ask you, Lord Harvey – you wish to save the time of the court, defer the ruling, and release the Negro?’
‘I do not, my Lord Justice,’ Lord Harvey says, with all the sincerity of a snake.
The Chief Justice nods. ‘So be it. Counsel Dunning, please make your closing arguments.’
Dunning stands in his finery and brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his robe. ‘Thank you, my Lord Justice,’ he says with a bow, then raises his hands to the rafters like he’s about to summon a miracle. ‘This country, the one I am proud to call my home, stands on the clifftop of uncertainty. We stand now at a point in history which will either establish our Empire as the greatest to have ever existed, or throw it to annals of mediocrity.’ Next, he rehashes his well-worn arguments for the umpteenth time: Negroes are violent and untrustworthy; it’d be an economic disaster to free them; God commands white people to enslave Black people.
Delphine’s eyes glaze over until he closes with a plea, facing the Chief Justice with his hands clasped. ‘Do not rule against the honourable Lord Harvey. Do not rule against all we have built.’
Silence follows. No applause or cheering like he’d garnered in earlier weeks, but silence – a wall of it – thick with anticipation of the Chief Justice’s ruling. Dunning straightens his robe and sits at his bench, a rosy flush creeping up his neck.
Good. Let him be embarrassed.
The Chief Justice says nothing, just motions for Nick to begin.
Nick pulls himself to his feet and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, face still pale. Has he come down with a case of influenza overnight? Or something worse – something more treacherous?
‘The questions arising from this case do not merely concern the poor, unfortunate soul who finds himself the subject of it,’ he begins, wearily, twine dangling limply from his hand. ‘The right claimed by Lord Harvey to detain Mister Mourière is based on the condition of slavery. The condition Vincent was born into in St Lucia. But the unfortunate circumstances of Vincent’s birth should not supersede the protections afforded him by the country where he now resides. We previously established a precedent that no man may be a slave on English shores. If that right is recognised by the court today, then along with it, we banish an evil that has been imported into this country. To think, a mere thirty years after the Portuguese and Spaniards commenced the trading of human chattel, Spain’s own Emperor Charles V intervened to stop its horrid chain of progress and ordered all slaves on the American Isles to be freed. And yet, one hundred and eighty years later, that unwelcome spectre still haunts this land.
‘I implore the court to recognise the most fundamental rule of our Lord: to treat your neighbour as you wish to be treated. Who here would condemn his neighbour to a life of servitude, where he may meet hardships unnumbered and grief untold? Nobody. For we are civilised, tolerable, human – and English. Vincent Mourière took in his first lung of free English air almost a decade ago. Do not let his last one belong to another. The English may not have instigated slavery, but today we can become the first to end it.’
