little mew.)
In October 1836, I was staying with Matthew Forster and his family for a few days while my room at the Misses Lance was undergoing a good turnout and a new carpet was laid. My feet had been very cold the winter before, in spite of worsted stockings knitted by Miss Agatha and warm slippers donated by Miss Kate. My little coal fire did not cast the heat very far and as I had never been able to write on my lap, my poor appendages shivered beneath my desk. I often wrote far into the night, indeed sometimes until I heard the milk pails clatter and the sound of horses’ hooves in the street below. The solution, or at least a partial solution, was to have a carpet fitted. I decided I could not stand all the fuss this would entail so, leaving the Misses Lance to supervise, I threw myself on the mercy of the Forsters.
When I came down to breakfast on the second morning of my stay (I dislike breakfast, but when one is a guest it is only good manners to put in an appearance, nibble on some toast and try not to look at the gentlemen eating kidneys and sausages, cold beef and pickle), Matthew waved a sheaf of papers at me and said, “This should interest you, Letty!”
“Why would some dull report interest me?” I said, settling myself near the toast rack and marmalade.
“This is not dull; in fact, it’s exceedingly interesting, a record of an excursion to Apollonia, on the Gold Coast, where the writer faced down an insurrection by the paramount chief. Quite a feat. And he signed a treaty with the old scoundrel as well.”
“That’s nice,” I said, not terribly impressed.
“And the writer, who is governor of Cape Coast Castle, is on leave here and coming tonight to dine.”
“And what is this paragon like?”
“George? An excellent chap, one of our best. Of course you want to know if he’s handsome.”
“That’s nonsense. I am much more interested in character than physiognomy.”
“Then you must be the exception. In any event, you shall make up your own mind about him.”
I took the report up to my room and read it carefully. There were words in it which set my blood racing: danger; price on my head; stood firm; the royal umbrellas; the heat; success; Africa. This last made me shiver with excitement. Our hero’s full name was George Maclean and so I sent the maid over to Regent Street for a length of Maclean tartan. By teatime I had concocted a shawl, a sash, and even a bit of ribbon for my hair. It was not that I expected much in the way of looks — or even manners. I had seen some of these Old Coasters at Matthew’s house before: stringy men, yellowish around the eyeball, prematurely grey or white, hands a bit shaky from the remains of fever or a steady diet of drink. After I became acquainted with cockroaches out there, I had a fancy, because of the similarity of skin colouring, that these ubiquitous insects were nothing but the souls of Old Coasters.
I sat on a chair, in all my Scottish finery, and waited impatiently for George Maclean. Chatted to many of the guests — I was known for my quick wit and merry laugh — but kept an eye out for the hero of Apollonia. I must admit the idea of an Englishman getting the better of a black man out in Western Africa did not seem much of an accomplishment, but Matthew assured me it was, so I had practised looking impressed and intent in front of my looking-glass for a good half hour.
George
I ALMOST DID’T GO TO FORSTER’S THAT NIGHT, for I was still recovering from a bad bout of fever and would have preferred dining alone. However, Matthew Forster was chairman of the Committee and I knew he was counting on my being there. Other members had been invited “and they will be most interested to hear how things are going along out there.” I knew that most of them really didn’t care so long as they made money. The abolition of the slave trade in ’33 had hit them in their purses and they were anxious that other trade goods should be found. Gold, palm oil, ivory from the north: none of these added up to the enormous profits of the slave trade. Of course we on the coast were not supposed to traffic in slaves and I never did, but I was an exception. It is not that I had ever been an active abolitionist, but somehow, putting a price on a human being — of whatever colour — bothered me. I arrived at the end of it, when the writing was on the wall and there was a desperation about the business — get as many niggers as you can before the curtain comes down. It was pretty nasty and some trading still went on, in spite of our patrol boats trying to apprehend the slave ships as they left. Not many were caught; those old captains knew all the bays and coves along the coast like the back of their sunburnt hands.
The drawing-room was full of people by the time I arrived, but Matthew must have been looking out for me, for I was barely in the door before he greeted me, grabbed my arm, and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Through the crush around her I had a glimpse of dark hair, a tartan ribbon, and a bit of tartan shawl. I assumed this was some long-lost cousin of mine that Matthew had dug up.
Letty
“LETITIA,” MATTHEW SAID, “I would like you to meet George Maclean, the governor of Cape Coast Castle. George, this is Letitia Landon.”
LETTY: IF MY FEET HAD NOT BEEN so cold the winter before …
George: If I hadn’t felt obligated to turn up that night …
George/Letty: We might never have met.
Letty: What I saw was an auburn-haired man of about my age, with the high colour that goes with the hair, rather full lips, and a very straight back. He looked uncomfortable; he looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.
George: What I saw was a young woman (she looked and dressed much younger than she really was) with pretty dark eyes (slightly protruding), pale, almost translucent skin, and a lively expression. No one could have called her a beauty, but there was something very attractive about her; a sort of intelligent interest in the world seemed to shine forth from her very being.
George
“ARE YOU A MACLEAN?” I ASKED.
“Oh, no, no. I have decorated myself like this in your honour.”
“Pardon?”
She patted the empty chair next to her.
“Come sit down, please do, so that I don’t get a crick in my neck from looking up at you. I have been reading your report of the Apollonia affair and I must tell you how much I admire you.”
She held up her hand. Both her hands and her feet were very small, almost child-like.
“Now don’t say ‘It was nothing!’”
“I would never say that; it was a very difficult situation.”
“And did you really have a price of twenty thousand ounces of gold on your head?”
“I did.”
“Yet no one took the old king up on this rather splendid offer?”
“No one.”
“Weren’t you frightened? Might not someone have murdered you — now they do that don’t they, out there — then chopped you up and boiled you in a big, black pot?”
He
