Foreigners Read Free Page A

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