Caribbean (94 page)

Upon consulting with Croome, he found him of like mind, so they dispatched urgent notes to Jamaica: “Please hurry up to London. We need you,” and when the women arrived to take charge of the mansions, Cavendish Square resembled the old days when the families spent nine months of each year in London.

At the end of the first week, Nell Croome read the signs: “Beth,
our men are planning to stay here not for months but for years,” and Beth replied: “The better for us. I love our house here,” and she began to serve as hostess for the meetings of John Stuart Mill’s committee, whose program was “Governor Eyre to the gallows for murder.”

The closeness of the two wives encouraged Croome to believe that he had a chance of weaning his cousin away from the Mill madness and over to the side of responsible patriots defending Eyre: “You simply must meet our men, Jason. They’re the backbone of Britain, and right now I’m taking you to see the best of the bunch, Thomas Carlyle. He’ll straighten you out.”

Jason said: “It might be improper for me to meet him under false colors, as it were. I am against Eyre, you know,” and Oliver said: “You won’t be after today,” and Jason went with him, for he did want to see this formidable man whose writings recommending that slavery be reestablished had so astounded him, and who now fought so stubbornly to defend Eyre. They drove to a modest house in London where a man of smallish height greeted them in the very heavy Scottish tweed suit he preferred, his head of thick hair trimmed just above his eyebrows, his graying beard and mustache somewhat unkempt, but his deep-set eyes flashing with that intelligence which amazed his readers.

Recognizing Croome as one of his adherents in the Eyre case, Carlyle extended his hand, then asked: “Is this young man also one of us?” and Croome lied: “He is. And I brought him to fortify his commitment.” At this, Carlyle invited them to join him in his study; as he led the way, they passed Mrs. Carlyle, who without any introduction said almost casually: “So you’re the men who are going to protect dear Governor Eyre from the niggers?”

“Yes,” Croome said eagerly, and she said: “Fight the good fight, young men. Evil spirits are afoot.”

When the three were comfortably seated, Carlyle gave an animated account of his recent efforts on behalf of Eyre, ending with the exciting news: “The Earl of Cardigan, hero of
Charge of the Light Brigade
—excellent poem that, by our friend Tennyson—has come over to our side. Gallant fellow, the public loves him and will listen.”

His razor-sharp, steel-hardened mind moved from one topic to another, and when Jason made bold to ask: “Do you still maintain the ideas you expressed in your essay on niggers?” he growled: “More than ever since the rebellion in your Jamaica,” and before Jason could
protest, he added: “If you read my essay closely, written in 1848 or ’49 if I remember correctly, you’ll find that I anticipated almost everything that happened. Quashee, not satisfied with free pumpkins to his heart’s desire, started a rebellion against law and order and paid the price. We must alert all Britain to the dangers involved if the persecution of Eyre for having done his duty succeeds,” and Jason noticed that Carlyle, as a devoted Scot, never spoke of England.

As Carlyle ticked off the charges being made by John Stuart Mill and his committee, whom he termed “lunatic” and “corrupt,” he became fiery in his denunciation: “They seem not to realize it! They’re threatening the very existence of the empire, all the good work our men have done in civilizing the savages, all to protect lazy Quashee so he can eat more pumpkins.”

Then, before either of his visitors could interrupt, he proceeded to lecture them on the realities of Britain’s position: “All sensible men during the troubled years just past supported the Southern side in the American rebellion, for it represented stability and strength of character. Those not concerned about the ultimate freedom of their nation or mankind favored the North. Same factors operate in the Eyre case. All who love decency and moral force defend Eyre. Those who care not for the continuity of empire attack him.” Jason was eager to challenge this, but the dour Scotsman thundered on, his beard almost sparking with the fire his words carried: “And mind you this, young men. Trouble’s brewing in Europe, and if the sad day ever comes when Britain aligns herself with France against Germany, the empire is doomed.”

“Why?” Jason asked, and Carlyle snapped his reply: “Because Germany represents manly behavior, the highest aspirations of nationhood, France the pusillanimous female meanderings.”

“Then why is France a nation and Germany not?”

“Pitiful leadership. But with our strong men coming onto the scene, real heroes in the ancient sense of that word, Germany will reign supreme on the Continent, and we must support her and ally with her.” He also gave it as his opinion that it would not be until well into the next century that any country in Europe would have to take the United States seriously: “They lack strong men. Lincoln was a disaster.”

Then abruptly he turned to Eyre: “We shall see to it, if we all work properly, that not a strand of his handsome black hair shall be touched by the dogs baying in the alleyways. He behaved like a man
of character, reminding Quashee that there is more to life than eating pumpkins in the indolent shade of some tree. Work, work is what saves a man, and we have work to do, honest man’s work, in holding off those fools who would attack a man for having done his duty.”

“How will you defend him against the charge that he sanctioned brutality?” Jason asked, and Carlyle glowered at him, an intense man afire with righteousness: “In the long run of history and in the defense of human progress, young man, do not brood sentimentally over the fate of Quashee and a few of his pumpkin-eating friends. We are fighting for salvation, Eyre was fighting for it too, the salvation of the human race. Quashee has nothing to do with that, he will never make any contribution to it. Eyre contributed a great deal in pacifying Jamaica. Forget Quashee. Defend Eyre.”

When his voice rose, reiterating his tirade against Quashee, Croome broke into applause: “Sir, you make the truth so explicit!” but Jason thought: What was that word Mill used to define blind rage? Monomania? Isn’t Carlyle an example of it too?

On the ride home Croome misinterpreted his cousin’s perplexed silence as proof that Carlyle’s forceful logic had changed Jason’s view of Eyre, and he believed that if his cousin would now experience the persuasive power of the governor’s principal defender, Alfred Tennyson, he would be converted. To that end he directed his driver to stop by the house in which the great poet was staying during meetings of the Eyre committee, and there he scratched a note on the back of an envelope, asking the butler at the door if it might be delivered to Mr. Tennyson.

“Highly irregular,” the man said stiffly, but Croome persisted: “We’re members of his committee, you know.” The man closed the door in their faces, but not before saying: “I’ll ask.” And in this way the two cousins from Jamaica worked their way in to see the most famous poet of his time.

They found him a tall, languid man dressed in formal black, with a heavy beard that covered most of his face, a very high forehead leading almost to baldness except that what hair he had was kept very long, almost obscuring his proper white collar. But his distinguishing mark was one which visitors never forgot, an unusually strong nose framed between a pair of deep-set eyes that seemed anguished and saddened by their view of the world. In every outward aspect, he was a poet in the grand visual tradition of Byron, Shelley and especially Keats.

“You do me honor,” he said in a resonant voice, “you Two Gentlemen from Jamaica.”

“You may remember me,” Croome said. “On your committee. Very strong for Governor Eyre.”

“No need to remind me, because I remember well in the last century the important role played in this city and in Parliament by your ancestor, gruff old Pentheny Croome.” Then, turning gently toward Jason, he asked: “And would I be wrong in presuming that this young man’s name is Pembroke? Two Peas in a Pod they were called in the old days.”

“How could you know that?” Jason asked in amazement, and Tennyson replied: “I know much about the old days … the gallant fighters for what side was right … ancestors of those who are fighting the good fight today.” He said this in a rather high, wavering voice.

Inviting them to sit, he called for tea, and as it was being served, he pointed to one cup that had been left empty: “Fortunate you came when you did. The Earl of Cardigan is stopping by, and you must meet him, the great hero of the charge at Balaklava, a veritable lion in defense of Eyre,” and with the utterance of that name his voice lowered, became more grave and sharpened.

“We have much work to do, gentlemen. John Stuart Mill and his scientists are mounting a formidable assault on the splendid man we must defend,” but holding his principal comments until Cardigan arrived, he turned to Jason and asked: “In Jamaica, did you get a good supply of books?”

“Oh yes! I remember so well that exciting day when the first copy of
Locksley Hall
arrived. I must have been no more than fourteen and Mother thought it too complex for me, but I read it anyway, and tears came when I realized that he was not going to win the girl he loved.”

“It is good to know tears when you are very young and trying to sort out the world, and also when you’re very old and realize what you’ve missed. But no tears in the middle years. Then there’s work to be done, and a man must be a man.”

“When I was older I became fascinated by one of your most powerful lines: ‘Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.’ ”

“You have a good ear. That was effective, because it makes an important point with clarity, yet in simple words that can be easily comprehended.”

“The line often came to haunt me when I was trying to decide, like your hero, whether to live in London like my grandparents or in Jamaica like Father and Mother.”

“See! Life imitates art. The problem arises in every generation, where to apply one’s talents.”

“But did you honestly mean that fifty years in Luxembourg, say, was better than a thousand years in China and Japan?”

“Unfair! Unfair! I never mentioned Luxembourg, which I’m sure is an attractive place. But are fifty years in the Europe of Paris, Berlin, Rome and London more meaningful to the human race than a cycle of China and Japan? Yes, a thousand times yes, because the great work of the world has been performed here, the worthy ideas hammered out, and very little of significance has been contributed by Asia.” He said this with great firmness, then added: “Of course, in the future, as exchange between various parts of the world improves, we may expect this to change. Even India, under our tutelage, will undoubtedly develop the capacity to make contributions, but for the present I will stand by the line you find troublesome.”

This speculation ended when the butler announced the arrival of one of the flamboyant men of the age, the resplendent Earl of Cardigan, a lean, handsome man, approaching seventy but with a sure step, a head of gold-streaked white hair, dramatic sideburns, clean dimpled chin and a gargantuan mustache, heavy over the lip, majestic in its extended waxed tips that reached parallel to his ears. Wearing a neat, simple uniform decorated with only three of the two dozen medals he was entitled to show, and with a heavy leather belt encasing his slim waist, he was a fighting man to be admired, and he knew it.

Tennyson spoke first: “Ah, Cardigan, our strong right arm. These are two of our young friends from Jamaica. They know full details of the Eyre business and have come to help us protect our hero.”

Cardigan, sitting primly with teacup balanced easily in his left hand, said in the mumbling, harrumphing manner he affected for dealing with the junior officers in the regiment whose colonelcy he had bought, and on which he spent a reputed ten thousand a year of his own money: “Damned poor business, hauling a governor up like this. He should have shot not four hundred of the black buggers but four thousand. Man is sent out to the ends of the world to govern, he’s supposed to govern.”

To Pembroke’s surprise, it was Croome who objected, not on the question of the executions but on the phrase of “ends of the world”
to describe Jamaica: “My lord, and begging your pardon, a hundred years ago the sugar planters of Jamaica controlled one-third of Parliament, and passed fine cautious laws.”

“Gallant crew, I’ve heard. Where did they so lose their courage that they allowed their splendid governor to be so abused?”

Jason broke in with: “How does it feel, milord, to be the hero of a poem that everyone in the world is quoting, and with such admiration for both the poet and his subject?”

Cardigan, approving of both the idea and the gracious manner in which it was expressed, nodded first to Tennyson, then to Pembroke, and mumbled through his elegant mustache: “Man gives an artist something to work with, and if he’s a genius, he does something with it, eh, Tennyson?” and he slapped the poet on the knee. Tennyson nodded.

“Are we making headway against those who would tear down the empire?” Cardigan asked, and Tennyson told the aging warrior: “We have thousands of men like these who agree with me. We’ll give our lives rather than see Eyre abused, for we know we’re fighting for the soul and future of England.”

“Hear, hear!” Cardigan cried, banging his saucer and its cup on the table. “Day’s past for allowing atheists like Mill and that Quaker Bright and Darwin, damn his heretical mind, to corrupt our government abroad. Damn me, you’d think we’d learn something from the Indian Mutiny—allow the little black ones to make one move on their own, they want to govern the world. You stop that nonsense with force, force I say,” and all the teacups except Pembroke’s rattled from the banging.

Then Tennyson spoke in a quieter tone: “His Lordship is correct. We cannot allow the lesser classes to dictate to those designated to govern. That way lies chaos. We must retain that hallowed discipline that allowed Cardigan here to lead his men into the mouths of the Russian guns, and encouraged his men to follow. When that spirit of nobility is lost in the world, the world is lost.”