‘Aye, that I did. “Don’t let the slaver put Ariel in chains! Let the African Ariel go free!” – that’s poetry, that is. Better than that muck.’ Caleb ground his boot on the discarded paper. ‘Saw the slave trade meself when I was a sailor. A foul business, Cat. I’m proud that Drury Lane is backing our Pedro.’
Obeying orders to keep out of sight, I waited until the audience had taken its place and crept into the manager’s box, concealing myself behind the curtains. There was a buzz of excitement in the theatre that signalled more than the ordinary interest in a first night. I spotted a number of our friends dotted around the auditorium. Directly opposite me in a box were the three Miss Millers, their hands demurely folded in their laps. I realized that what was normal for me was a big adventure for them. Joe ‘The Card’ came in with a party of loudly dressed apprentices from the market and they took positions at the front of the gallery. They seemed to be responsible for most of the paper darts raining down on the Pit as they took the distribution of our leaflet into their own hands. As I watched, the door below the Miss Millers’ box opened and Kingston Hawkins entered, his thumb bound in a white bandage. He was accompanied by a large group of men in evening dress. They took places on the benches directly below the Miss Millers, pushing those already seated out of their way. I wondered if our Quaker sisters realized the devil himself had just arrived. Hawkins sat down at his ease and gazed around him. His glance fell on Mr Equiano sitting a few benches in front of him. He gave a contemptuous smile and continued his survey. It was then that I had a feeling that he was looking for me. I ducked back into the shadows, determined not to be seen.
Signor Angelini entered from a side door to take his place in the orchestra pit. After bowing gracefully to acknowledge the applause, he tapped his baton on the stand. The violins sounded a tremulous note like the hum of the wind in a ship’s rigging and the audience settled down for the main business of the evening.
The play opened with a brilliant sound and light show depicting a shipwreck. Reader, if you have not yet witnessed such spectacular effects at Drury Lane, you must purchase a ticket without delay to see the miracle of our modern technology. Mr Kemble had employed an Italian puppeteer to work his magic with a model of a ship foundering in heavy seas. The backstage crew worked wonders with their thunder machine, cranking it for all they were worth. Revolving mirrors were deployed to make flashes of lightning from lanterns hidden in the wings. For extra realism the actors were doused in water as they staggered on stage to deliver their lines, a few droplets reaching the spectators in the stageside boxes near me, causing ripples of consternation among the smartly dressed occupants. The effect was captivating. The audience temporarily forgot the battle for Pedro and was lost in the storm. I saw the three Miss Millers sitting open-mouthed. Miss Prudence was bouncing with excitement in her seat. Even Mr Hawkins had eyes only for the stage, a grudging look of admiration on his face.
But after the next scene change – Prospero’s island – the trouble began. Poor Miss Farren, in the character of Miranda, had the first line to deliver. As her stage father, Prospero, played by Mr Kemble, entered from his cave, Hawkins’ set started their hissing and booing.
‘Thief!’ shouted Hawkins.
‘Blackguard!’ yelled another.
Miss Farren struggled on, but the noise swelled as more pro-slavery supporters joined the barrage of abuse, some throwing orange peel and rotten fruit on to the stage. Miranda is supposed to be in tears during her first speech, but this night they were real. Miss Farren was on the point of giving up when, suddenly, Mr Kemble abandoned his scripted moves and strode to the front of the stage, oblivious to the rain of vegetables. He began to conduct the whistles and jeers as if raising the storm himself. The rest of the audience soon got the joke and a titter of laughter ran through the gallery. Hawkins flushed with anger as Prospero assumed power over the attack upon him.
‘Louder!’ cried Mr Kemble. ‘Blow winds and crack your cheeks!’ he extemporized, borrowing from another play.
The crowd cheered and many of us began to howl like hurricane winds, drowning out the feeble cries of the protestors. Miss Farren was completely inaudible but came to the end of her speech with dignity.
‘Be collected!’ commanded Mr Kemble, returning to script and signalling with a swipe of his hand for the noise to cease. The audience obeyed. Hawkins’ crew dared not strike up again: Mr Kemble had humiliated them by demonstrating his power over the majority of the audience. Hawkins resumed his seat, muttering angrily to his companions.
I had thoroughly enjoyed this first battle of wills, but now my heart began to thump as Pedro’s entrance approached. What would Hawkins and his gang do then? The moment arrived.
‘Approach, my Ariel . . . Come!’ Prospero cried.
Starting high up on the right-hand side of the roof, a blue-and-white streak flashed across the stage. It was Pedro, standing on a swing contraption dreamt up by Mr Bishop, to give the impression that our Ariel really could fly. He disappeared from view, then swung back. This time, as the swing reached centre stage, Pedro leapt off and somersaulted to the floor, continuing to tumble and flip until he landed in a bow at Prospero’s feet. The audience exploded with excitement at this spectacular entrance. Even Hawkins was driven to give a begrudging round of applause – but then, I suppose he thought all the credit Pedro earned was really his. I could see Pedro crackling with exhilaration as he soaked in the audience’s admiration. He delivered his speech with a force that had been lacking in rehearsals. No hard-of-hearing dwarf in the gods would have missed a word.
Trouble only began again when Kemble spoke. ‘My brave spirit!’ he declared.
‘Not yours, Kemble. He’s mine!’ bellowed Hawkins from the Pit. ‘Give him up!’
‘Hear, hear!’ rumbled the pro-slavery faction from the benches around him.