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we must plan for what might be inevitable.   And what the Quakers and Evangelicals say
about our slaves does strike a chord—in my mind, at least.”
    “That’s because you are the embodiment of
compassion without sense.”
    Catherine looked at her father and then out to the
back lawn.  
    Cecil stood up from the table.   “A slave gave birth to a healthy boy last
night, and I would like to inspect him before Phinneas adds him to the
register.   I will have the carriage
brought around in an hour’s time.”
    Catherine’s eyes dropped to her plate, and she
studied it until Cecil exited the dining room.   After he left, she finished her breakfast and gazed out of the
window.  
    Palms fanned in the ever-blowing breeze, partially
obstructing her view of the back lawn.   Sunday
stretched itself wide and lazily before her, and as she chewed the sweet fruit
from her plate Catherine tried to send her mind to wander into the cool, moist
landscape which she hoped to explore in solitude after church. Instead she
could only think of her father’s words, and the chores that needed done, and
Rebecca’s baby, and Leah’s fatigue.
    Childish shrieks and laughter snatched Catherine
from her thoughts.   Three small slave
children were chasing one another down by the path that led to their huts.   Catherine grinned as she collected various
treats from her breakfast table and wrapped them in a napkin.   After glancing around the dining room to make
sure she was not seen, Catherine ran from the house and charged after the
children into the dark path.   Leah’s eyes
smiled after her in the shadows.

 

 
    James
stared out at the sea as the carriage brought him closer to the drive off the
main road.   An insistent breeze blew away
the harsh edges of the heat that had begun to settle on the island.   His eyes could not take in enough of the
surrounding landscape:   golden apples,
coconut palms, fern, bamboo, all color and array of blossoms, and countless
other varieties of vegetation all teeming with warblers, finches, doves,
swifts, lizards, beetles, butterflies and monkeys.   And standing above it all, a grand mountain
steeped in clouds and drizzled in miles of rainforest.  
                The great roar of noise from the
crashing waves, the trade winds, and the morning symphony of island creatures,
combined with the magnificence of the visual landscape assaulted and intoxicated
James’ senses.   He looked at his father
sitting next to him for a reaction, but saw only the steady and placid look
that always characterized Albert Silwell.  
                The Silwells were in Nevis under the direction of Thomas Clarkson.   Clarkson and William Wilberforce were two
leading British abolitionists working to persuade their country to end slavery
and all its associated practices.   Clarkson was honored by Wordsworth in a poem written after Clarkson had
helped to get the Slave Trade Bill of 1807 passed—which had effectively banned
British ships from involving themselves in the slave trade.   His drawing depicting how the slaves were
arranged below deck in transatlantic crossings influenced many people of the
time to reconsider their views on the practice of slavery.   James and Albert Silwell were on the island
gathering evidence to assist Clarkson and Wilberforce in their anti-slavery
crusade.  
    James’ eyes moved to the large dark-skinned man
driving the horses.   His neck shone with
perspiration.   He was thin, but the
muscles on his forearms and the spread of his back showed his strength.   He looked stiff and uncomfortable in the
white blouse and black breeches that he was wearing.   As the sun warmed and illuminated their backs
James drew in his breath.   He noticed
knotted scar tissue creeping up the back of the slave’s neck that he had
originally mistaken for a shirt’s ruffle.    The vine-like scars fascinated and repulsed James enough to capture his
attention for the remainder of