O nce, years before, when Sebastian was a small boy in short coats, he befriended a tall, strapping young footman named Luge. Sebastian was the son of an earl, while Luge was in service to Sebastian’s grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Hendon. But for a brief, shining moment out of time, man and boy had connected in a way that transcended such ordinary impediments as station, age, and race.
Afterward, Sebastian would wonder at the good-natured patience of the handsome, ebony-skinned footman who had indulged the boundless curiosity of a small boy who could listen for hours to Luge’s tales of the sun-drenched sands and crystal-clear seas of Barbados, the island of his birth. Luge had been only eight years old when the Dowager Countess purchased him at a slave market in Bridgetown and brought the child back to England as her page. Once, he even showed Sebastian the brand on his shoulder and grinned as the boy reached out to trace the initials of the master who had marked Luge as his property the way Sebastian’s father marked his own horses and cattle.
“Did it hurt?” Sebastian asked in awe.
“I reckon,” said Luge. “But I don’t remember. I was still little.”
Sebastian had seen brands on ragged men and women in the streets—usually a “T” for “thief” or an “M” for “manslaughter.” But the thought of anyone doing that to a small child horrified him so much that he stayed away from Luge for a few days. And the next time Sebastian visited his grandmother, he was told that Luge had taken off his powdered wig, set it atop his folded velvet livery, and simply walked off into the gathering dusk.
The Dowager advertised for his return, although no one paid much attention anymore to advertisements for runaway slaves. A succession of court cases had reinforced the popular belief that the air of England was “too pure for a slave to breathe.”
But what was true of the air of England was not true of the air in England’s colonies. Even those who supported the freeing of England’s ten to fifteen thousand slaves often grew fainthearted at the thought of the financial havoc that would result from the emancipation of those who toiled to produce the sugar, tobacco, cotton, indigo, and rice that made England wealthy and powerful.
Some twenty years after Luge walked away to freedom, Sebastian had landed with his regiment in Barbados to find the island little changed from the colony Luge had described. A dazzling sun still soaked golden sands lapped by achingly blue waters, and vast weathered docks swarmed with ebony-skinned men in canvas trousers, their sweat-sheened backs crisscrossed with the scars of past floggings.
Such sights did not shock Sebastian, for the lash was applied with brutal frequency to the men who enlisted or were impressed into His Majesty’s Army or Navy; even Englishwomen were still sometimes stripped naked to the waist and whipped at the cart’s tail. But as he climbed through Bridgetown’s dusty streets, past low buildings with long windows shaded by deep verandas and shuttered against the oppressive heat, he came upon an open square crowded with African men, women, and children of all ages. Some sat blankly staring into space, while others huddled together, mothers hugging infants to their breasts as solemn, wide-eyed toddlers clutched their skirts. A few planters, sun-reddened faces shadowed by broad-brimmed hats, circulated amongst them. The air was thick with the smell of cigar smoke and human sweat and wretched despair, and Sebastian drew up abruptly as the realization of what he was witnessing slammed into him.
A young woman and a good-looking boy of perhaps eight or ten were pushed up onto the block. Transfixed by fascination and horror, Sebastian could only watch as the auctioneer expressed a wish to sell mother and child together. But the woman had a withered right arm that discouraged buyers, whereas interest in her handsome son was strong. The auctioneer finally agreed to sell the two separately, and silent, helpless tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks as a spirited bidding began for the child.
Then the hammer fell, and the successful bidder—a fat man with bad teeth and an egg-stained waistcoat—pushed forward to collect his new property.
“No,” the mother screamed, lunging forward as the boy was led away. “No! You can’t take him. Oh, please don’t take him. Please.”
Hands caught her, dragged her back. She fought wildly, uselessly, her face contorted with hopeless anguish. For one suspended moment, her frantic gaze met Sebastian’s over the heads of the onlookers, and he felt a wash of helpless shame—for his nation, his race, his time, and his own inaction—that he’d known even then would never leave him.