Foreigners (2 page)

During the proceedings I sat across the aisle from Francis
Barber, who perched uncomfortably with his head bowed
and who appeared to be genuinely consumed with grief.
It was noticeable that few chose to sit near to him, but
having shared a carriage with the said person I fully understood
that the reason for their reluctance had precious
little to do with his sooty complexion and everything to
do with the human sensation of smell. I looked at this
unmoored man, who had undoubtedly lost a champion
and a defender, for all of Johnson's circle knew that they
should never speak ill of Francis Barber while in the doctor's
presence, but the sad negro had lost more than perhaps
even he had imagined. He had lost his father and his anchor
in this world, and although I understood that these days
Francis now possessed some version of a wife and a family,
sitting quietly by himself in Westminster Abbey this poor
man looked to all intent and purpose as though he was
suddenly alone in the world.

At the conclusion of the short and unsatisfactory service,
it was understood that we members of the Literary Club
would repair to a nearby familiar tavern in order that we
might drink toast after toast in the doctor's honour until
late into the night. Aside from rehearsing the details of
the great man's life, there would be other subjects for discussion,
including the controversial nature of the day's truncated
ceremony, and the question of the will and the
disposal of the doctor's assets. These subjects would
undoubtedly keep myself and my fellow devotees of Dr
Johnson happily occupied for many hours, but I knew full
well that Francis Barber, without the protection of his
master, would not be invited to join the company. As I
stood to take my leave of the abbey, I looked again at this
forlorn figure bent forward in the pew and seemingly reluctant
to rise to his feet. It occurred to me that the Christian
thing to do might be to approach the negro and offer him
sincere commiserations for his loss, thereby once again
extending the hand of friendship, but I had no desire to
place the servant in an awkward predicament and so I cast
him a final glance and strode purposefully down the aisle
towards daylight, leaving this abandoned man alone in the
abbey with his master and his dark thoughts.

Some sixteen years after the funeral of the good doctor,
I found myself comfortably appointed inside a carriage
that was bowling into Lichfield, a fair-sized city with a
reputation bolstered by Mr Daniel Defoe's favourable
comments in which he recorded that he considered Lichfield
a place for 'good conversation and good company'. I had
been led to believe that this low-lying city, surrounded by
fields and woods and marshes, was principally distinguished
by its fortunate location, situated as it is 110 miles north
of London, and a mere 14 miles beyond Birmingham. This
places the city in an advantageous position on the main
coaching route to the north-west and Ireland, but I understood
Lichfield to be also renowned for its beautiful, yet
somewhat eccentric, cathedral that was long ago constructed
out of faded red stone, and which displays not one but
three spires. I had arranged to spend a single night at the
Three Crowns, a respectable inn that I had been led to
believe was situated close by the doctor's childhood home.
Having arrived at my destination, I announced myself to
the ruddy-faced innkeeper who quickly escorted me to my
room on the first floor. He informed me that dinner would
soon be served, and as my hunger had been powerfully
aroused by the long journey I suggested to him that I
would like to dine as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes
somewhat apologetically as he informed me that it might
take his cook a full half-hour to prepare my meal, but in
the meantime he encouraged me to try some Staffordshire
oatcakes and a jug of Lichfield Olde Ale, which I hastily
declined.

I dined alone, but under the judicious scrutiny of a
young drudge who had clearly been instructed to cater to
my needs. I ignored the lackey and carefully observed the
boisterous local folk, who noisily refreshed themselves with
draught after draught of malty beer. Having finished my
adequate, but by no means exceptional, meal I interrogated
my simple host with regards to the origins of the city, at
which point he asked permission to join my table. He told
me that legend had it that around AD 300, and during the
reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, over 1,000
Christians were martyred nearby. According to this man,
the name Lichfield actually means the 'field of the dead'.
My host refreshed my glass of port-wine before laughing
out loud and conceding that there was no evidence to
support this
fact
, but he knew it to be true and beyond
contention. He also 'knew' that there were no thatched
roofs in Lichfield because of the risk of fire, a peculiarity
which set this city apart from most English centres to the
north or south. Exulting in what he imagined to be his
own pleasantry, he continued and informed me that Queen
Mary had long ago made Lichfield its own county, so that
while the city stands in Staffordshire it does not take part
as a member of the said same county. And what, I asked,
now warming to the task which had occasioned me to
leave London and travel to Lichfield, of the city's prominent
or notorious citizenry? At this my host was quick to
laugh out loud and proclaim two names that he insisted
would be familiar to any who held English to be his tongue:
David Garrick and Samuel Johnson. As though this were
too easy a resolution to my question he continued and,
clearly relishing the heat of conversation and the close
proximity to controversy, he lowered his voice and informed
me that some 200 years ago the last person to be burnt
at the stake in England for heresy was burnt in Lichfield.
I nodded sagely and then bided my time before asking
after negroes. 'Negroes?' The man seemed confused.
'Around here?' he asked. I said nothing further and waited
for him to continue, and then I saw his pockmarked cheeks
begin to flush. 'I see. I suppose a gentlemen like you must
be asking after Frank Barber?'

I slept badly in the awkward bed, for the whole contraption
seemed to be woefully misshapen from having no
doubt supported the fatigued bodies of countless exhausted
pilgrims. Being one who was not familiar with the turmoil
of undertaking frequent excursions, leaving London constituted
for me a great adventure of sorts. Having recently
retired from my commercial business in the City, where I
grew to despise the vulgar rapacity of the sugar and slave
men of the West Indies, I had recently begun to contemplate
some involvement in the Province of Freedom – Mr
Granville Sharp's scheme for resettling blacks on the west
coast of Africa in an efficiently managed colony – as a
way of honourably investing my money for profit and charitably
passing my days. This being the case, my ageing
mind was forever returning to the disturbing image of
poor Francis Barber all alone in Westminster Abbey, and
I finally understood that before making any decision about
my own future philanthropic investments it might profit
me to revisit the past and try to discover what had become
of the forlorn negro. I wondered, was he yet another
example of a poor transplanted African whose roots had
refused to properly catch the soil of our fair land? Or had
life beyond his master's departure showered the negro with
good fortune? It chanced that my late-night conversation
with the lumpish innkeeper had helped to clarify the situation.
Eventually the light of day began to spill through
the shuttered windows, and I heard stirrings in the various
rooms about the Three Crowns, but I did not move.
Recalling the previous evening's conversation, I found myself
caught in a web of indecision. Should I follow my host's
suggestion and seek out the widow, Mrs Elizabeth Barber,
or should I simply depart in the direction of London and
admit defeat in my quest. I lay in bed while the day
announced itself as a fine summer's morning, and then I
heard a timid knock upon the door which I assumed would
be the servant bearing water for my ablutions.

The carriage bounced its way unceremoniously down
the rutted lane, and I was sure that the ancient driver was
deriving childish pleasure from seeking the most difficult
and bone-jarring route. The carriage window afforded a
fine prospect, and I looked warmly upon the young English
maidens labouring merrily in the fields who knew that at
the end of their working day there would be liberty and
freedom. How different a life it was for those who we
forced to expend themselves in the tropical fields of the
West Indies. At the end of their day, there was neither
liberty nor freedom, but merely the expectation of more
suffering unredeemed by any financial or material gain. I
continued to stare at the young maidens, but soon realised
that, despite their obvious beauty, I should avert my eyes
and focus my mind on the task at hand. The previous
evening my host, having conveyed the dreadful news of
Francis Barber's demise, had continued and informed me
that, to the best of his knowledge, the family of Francis
Barber had last been heard of living in a place named
Burntwood, a hamlet that lay only four miles beyond the
city to the west. Having given me this information, the
innkeeper had ceased speaking for a few moments as though
his mind was tormented with some burdensome secret.
'You do understand,' he said, 'that this is not a place to
which those such as yourself habitually journey. Truly,
there is nothing there of any consequence.' Again he paused.
'Except, of course, that you will most likely discover Mrs
Barber.' With this said the man once again topped off our
glasses with wine, and thereafter we fell silent for what
remained of the evening. Securing the services of the
ancient driver and carriage had been relatively simple, for
the innkeeper had made it his business to assist me.
However, this morning, when my host informed the driver
that Burntwood was to be my destination, the puzzled
look on the face of the wizened man spoke eloquently to
all that the innkeeper had suggested. It was difficult to
ascertain if the aged driver was genuinely offended, or
merely temporarily surprised, at having been instructed to
undertake a journey to such a place.

We eventually drew up beside a tall, unruly, hedgerow
that was clearly in need of some attention. Initially, I found
it difficult to understand why my driver had stopped the
carriage for I could see no sign of human life. However,
taking the whip in his right hand, the ancient man pointed
beyond the hedgerow to a modestly proportioned stone
cottage which I now understood to be my destination. The
morning sun had been kind to my bones and so I required
no immediate assistance descending from the contraption,
although the driver rightfully made his services available
to me. 'Wait here,' I insisted, and then, gathering my wits
about me, I walked gingerly towards the unprepossessing
abode and knocked sharply on the door. The ominous
silence was disturbed only by the pleasing sound of birds
singing and a brook babbling somewhere in the distance.
I knocked again, and this time shouted out loud in the
hope that I might attract the attention of somebody within,
but it appeared that I succeeded only in alarming my
carriage driver, for the decrepit fellow left his vehicle and
hastened to my side imagining that I must be crying out
for help. On discovering that I was perfectly safe, and
merely attempting to arouse the inhabitants of the dwelling,
he rearranged himself and withdrew again to his carriage
leaving me perfectly alone.

It was then that the door began to slowly open, the
crying of the rusty hinges announcing the action, and a
shadowy head soon emerged and stared up in my direction.
A strangely coloured and clearly disconsolate child,
with eyes as big as two saucers, stared up at me, but seemed
reluctant to say anything. I bade the apparition a good
morning and asked if its mother was hereabouts. The
child, which I now determined to be female, shook its
fuzzy head, which at least suggested an intelligence of the
English language. I asked the girl if she imagined that her
mother might show herself in the near future, but it
appeared that this question stretched her comprehension
a little too far, for the urchin simply stared back at me
with frigid indifference and said nothing. Clearly I had
arrived at the right place, for this dirty-looking child was
obviously the product of a union between one of England's
fair wenches and a negro, presumably Francis Barber.

However, it was evident that there was little point in trying
to draw the creature into conversation for its understanding
was clearly limited, and its mother had obviously absented
herself for the day.

By the time I returned to Lichfield it was midday, but
my curiosity was so piqued by the discovery of the child
that I determined to see what more I might learn about
the fate of Francis Barber from my host. It transpired that
the phlegmatic innkeeper had absconded to Birmingham
on an urgent matter of business, but his portly wife
informed me that her husband would certainly return by
the evening. I thanked her for the information, and then
spent a good part of the afternoon exploring the modest
city of Lichfield by foot. To my dismay, the place appeared
to lack a coffee house where a man might settle into a
snug and partake of some wholesome liquor while perusing
the gazette or public papers and, in the convivial company
of his peers, receive news and information pertaining to
both business and pleasure. Lichfield lacked not only a
coffee house, but the city appeared to be thoroughly devoid
of that constant flow of humanity which characterises the
unique vitality of any great city, and is so abundant in my
own London. The great immensity of London which
assaults the ears, nose, and eyes of any visitor, where wealth,
commerce, and plenty dwell next to poverty, pestilence,
and despair, and where fully one-tenth of the nation's
population teem and tumble together, was altogether
absent in this simple place. In fact, there was little in this
Lichfield that I deemed to be worthy of my scrutiny. I
did see one or two fine buildings, and the architecture of
the twelfth-century cathedral allowed me to soothe my eyes
for an hour, but this was the sum total of Lichfield's pleasures.
On arriving back at the Three Crowns I discovered
that my host had recently returned, and shortly before
dinner he sent word to my room that he would very much
like to converse with me for he had gleaned information
that I might find useful. Perhaps, he suggested, we might
take a drink together after the completion of my meal.