odour of porter and rum upon the air. And he did not slap July hard upon her backside, feign the movement of fornication to her, then shout, ‘Tell yer missus it is ’er lucky day.’ No. Robert Goodwin stepped on to the veranda with his arms held high, like a preacher engaged in the glorification of the almighty.
‘A new day is come, Mrs Mortimer,’ he said. Then, with a broad, blithe smile that even shed its gleam upon July, Robert Goodwin rapturously declared, ‘Behold, a new morning has broken. Slavery—that dreadful evil—is at an end.’
This new overseer was neither a ruffian nor a drunkard; he was a gentleman, the son of a clergyman with a parish near Sheffield. A man of six and twenty with soft hands, clean fingernails, and hair thick and dark as river silt. Although only standing to the same height as the missus, his upright and steadfast bearing made him appear two feet taller, at the very least. And no ugly whiskers nor shockingly bushy eyebrows befouled the youthful roses that still flushed at his cheeks. Robert Goodwin was someone who, in England, the missus could, with all propriety, have shaken by the hand. Come, his mother’s family even had a baronet residing somewhere within its ranks.
After a long and lengthy visit to survey the field negroes at Amity, Robert Goodwin delivered his findings to the missus thus: ‘Such a number of poor, miserable black people I have never seen before, Mrs Mortimer. Their houses and gardens have been neglected—some are in perfect ruin.’
Now, these words were precisely the same ones employed by the last overseer (just before that bluster of contempt for our missus had run him away, out of her employ), yet Caroline Mortimer gasped with such astonished ignorance at Robert Goodwin’s words that any would believe that this was her first time of hearing this charge. ‘Oh, whatever can be done?’ she exclaimed. ‘Just tell me, Mr Goodwin, and it shall be my wish, too.’
When he continued with, ‘Firstly, madam, we must endeavour to restore their best feelings to you by telling them how fairly you intend to treat them now that they are free,’ and informed the missus that, ‘I will address all the negroes shortly within the mill yard. And Mrs Mortimer, you must accompany me on that mission—we must leave them with no question on whose authority I now speak,’ he was unaware that words similar to these, requesting actions that were identical, had once caused the missus such offence that she nearly—if only she’d thought of it in time—told the last man who uttered them to go to blazes. Although Robert Goodwin was wise enough for his brow to furrow in the fear that so forthright a command might cause his employer some displeasure, he need not have fretted, for the missus responded to him with unbounded enthusiasm.
‘Of course! Whatever you say,’ she said. ‘But do you think the negroes will heed us, Mr Goodwin?’
‘Oh yes, madam,’ he replied and when his frown moved from worry to pensive contemplation all in the raise of one eyebrow, the missus leaned forward upon her chair so she might listen with deeper fellow feeling.
‘Negroes are simple, good fellows,’ he went on, ‘They need kindness—that is all. When it is shown to them then they will respond well and obediently.’
She tilted her head and a sympathetic smile appeared.
‘They are not so far from dogs in that respect,’ he said, which allowed our missus the chance to emit an attractive titter. ‘Please do not misunderstand my meaning, Mrs Mortimer.’
Oh, no, no, no—our missus shook her head.
‘The African stands firmly within the family of man. They are living souls. God’s children as sure as you or I.’
Of course, she mouthed soundlessly.
It was only when he continued with, ‘But I know within my heart that now that they are free to work under their own volition, they will, if treated with solicitude, work harder for their masters,’ that the missus let a little doubt widen her eyes.
She asked, ‘Are you sure of this, Mr Goodwin?’
His reply, ‘I know it as surely as I know anything, madam,’ made her once more relax and adjust the lock of hair that continued to flop on to her forehead, despite the use of a pin. ‘It is for this reason that I have come to Jamaica. It was my father’s wish, of course. My father believed wholeheartedly that slavery was an abomination. “Take kindness to the negro, Robert,” he told