that they might learn sufficient English for them to be able to return to the West African coast and act as interpreters for metropolitan traders eager to challenge the Portuguese control of slave-trafficking.
By the 1570s black people were being brought to England fairly regularly. They were employed as household servants, prostitutes, and court entertainers. Their visibility far exceeded their numerical presence and allowed Queen Elizabeth I to make political capital in 1601 by issuing a proclamation ordering their expulsion. In doing so she announced that she was
highly discontented to understand the great numbers of negars and Blackamoores which (as she is informed) are crept into this realm … who are fostered and relieved here to the great annoyance of her own liege people, that want the relief, which those people consume, as also for that the most of them are infidels, having no understanding of Christ or his Gospel.4
Writing Othello just two years later, Shakespeare was undoubtedly influenced by the black bandsmen he’d seen in London, as well as the growing number of African prostitutes on the capital’s streets.
As ‘Londinium’, the metropolis had prospered because it was a port city that was ideally located for exporting British slaves, both household chattel and prisoners of war, to other provinces in the Roman Empire. Now, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the traffic was reversed: it began to import slaves from Britain’s colonies in the Americas and the Caribbean. Soon thousands lived and worked here. Not only could they be spied in menial environments – serving food at lordly tables, on the streets tailing their masters and opening carriage doors for them – but they could be found embroiled in aristocratic sex scandals, niggering it up on the Drury Lane stage, servicing peruked noblemen in Covent Garden male brothels, running coal mines in Kingston upon Thames, helping to free the Newgate Gaol inmates during the Gordon Riots of 1780. Fear of their growing numbers, a lurking racial hostility, and the need to stop runaway slaves from becoming skilled and economically self-sufficient led the Lord Mayor to issue a proclamation as early as 1731:
It is Ordered by this Court, That for the future no Negroes or other Blacks be suffered to be bound Apprentices at any of the Companies of this City to any Freeman thereof; and that Copies of this Order be printed and sent to the Masters and Wardens of the several Companies of this City, who are required to see the same at all times hereafter duly observed.5
Intermarriage between blacks and whites, and also between lascars from the Asian subcontinent and whites, was so rife that a correspondent for The Times in 1867 wrote, ‘There is hardly such a thing as a pure Englishman in this island. In place of the rather vulgarized and very inaccurate phrase, Anglo-Saxon, our national denomination, to be strictly correct, would be a composite of a dozen national titles.’6 In 1900 – the heyday of an Empire often assumed to have been a foreign affair, thousands of sweltering miles away in the malarial jungles of darkest Africa and the heat-and-lust shimmer of the Raj – black and Asian people were common sights in London: peddling religious tracts in White-chapel; walking, law books in hand, to the Inns of Court where they were students; operating on sick patients at teaching hospitals; collecting fares on the city’s omnibuses; performing as nigger minstrels at children’s parties or church halls; campaigning for Parliament (in 1892 Dadabhai Naoroji became the first Asian to be elected to the House of Commons); advocating decolonization from behind lecterns at The Reform Club and Westminster Town Hall; serving cheap coffee in East End cafés to their fellow countrymen who had just finished long shifts at dock warehouses.
At Trafalgar Square, perhaps the best known landmark in all of London, a young couple from Singapore are wearing smiles and woolly hats and having their photo taken in front of the fountains; schoolchildren whoop with delight as they feed the pigeons; a lone activist protests human rights violations against the Kurds. No one stops to look at Nelson’s Column, far less the bronze relief at its south-facing base. Sculpted by J.E. Carew, it is called ‘The Death of Nelson’ and shows the Admiral stricken and dying. All around him is flurry: cannons are being loaded, the rigging tugged at, the injured carried away. At the very edge of the relief is a black mariner, rifle in hand, still busy doing battle. Who was he? HMS Victory’s master book doesn’t supply his name, but it does reveal that he was one of a small number of foreigners amongst the crew, and that at least one other was born in Africa. ‘England Expects Every Man Will Do His Duty’ reads the inscription. Many black men during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries did exactly that. They were often maimed or killed in the process. After abandoning life at sea, a number of them, as this book will show, ended up in London where they sank into destitution and were forced to choose between beggary and the workhouse.
Close to Nelson’s Column can be found a statue of Sir Henry Havelock who in 1857 put down an uprising in Lucknow with barbaric savagery. Having forced villagers to lick up the blood of the relatives his troops had just killed, he then made Muslims, on pain of being whipped, eat pork, and Hindus eat beef. They were further bludgeoned and then hanged. He was honoured for his efforts in 1861 when a memorial was erected in Trafalgar Square, paid for by public subscription. On its back can be found the exhortation, ‘Soldiers! Your Labours Your Durations Your Sufferings And Your Valour Will Not Be Forgotten By A Grateful Country’. Clearly they have. In October 2000 Mayor Ken Livingstone proposed that the statue be removed and admitted that he did not know who Havelock was. If the role of black and Asian people in shaping English history, both its high and its low points, can be so easily overlooked even at so visible and central a location as Trafalgar Square, is there any point in trying to draw attention to it in relation to less exalted parts of London?
Part of the problem may be that blacks and Asians tend to be used in contemporary discourse as metaphors for newness. Op-ed columnists and state-of-the-nation chroniclers invoke them to show how, along with deindustrialization, devolution and globalization, Englishness has changed since the end of the war. That they had already been serving in the armed forces, stirring up controversy in Parliament, or, as The Times suggested, through their mere bedroom arrangements helping to change the way that national identity is conceptualized, often goes unacknowledged. In contrast, New York defines itself through such symbols of newness and ethnic multiplicity as Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
Popular culture encourages the conflation between London, ethnicity and newness. The very category ‘urban’, signifying a range of musical styles from garage and drum‘n’bass to glossy r‘n’b, is used as shorthand for black, or at least a certain version of it, one that is associated with a kind of in-yer-face, street-real nowness that is highly valued by advertisers and media planners who have always been eager to tap into – and exploit – youth culture’s desire for the next ‘next thing’.
Certainly, walking through the streets of London today, it’s hard not to be struck by the omnipresence of ‘colour’, and its importance in giving tang and immediacy to the city. Strange aromas flume out of North African side-caffs and foodstalls; puffaclad man-bwoys slouch along with barrio-hustler gaits and practise throwing shapes; Nike billboards enjoin us to buy boots endorsed by the latest soccer sensation who, according to that morning’s tabloids, is as lethal a striker in the bedroom as he is on the pitch; a riot of badly-xeroxed fly-posters plastered on to a defunct internet café big up Nation of Islam rallies and lecture series in Highgate to be delivered by ludicrously-monikered Indian holy men; a would-be It Girl sports a ludicrous bindi on her forehead as she flicks through the cheap sari fabrics on display outside ‘Qasim Cloathes’; a Bangladeshi cornershop offers cheap calls to Dakar and Accra; telephone kiosks are plastered with cards announcing the dominating charms of a 48DD Brand Nubian Beauty; a straggle of interestingly-coiffured clubbers queue to see if there are any returns for tonight’s soundclash between two Dalston-based dark-side glitch-fiends; a sleek young courier poised at the traffic lights sings to himself, ‘We’re loving it loving it loving it’; flush with his first salary cheque from a German multinational, an expensively-suited
