Crawford slouched back in his seat, with his hands behind his head and replied with a tolerant smile, “This slavery debate has gone on in the public sphere for some time, so I can put some thoughts to you for your consideration, Mrs. Crawford. First, you have been in correspondence with your dear brother William for many years now, haven’t you? He has sung to you the praises of the Navy, hasn’t he? Has he never happened to mention to you, Mrs. Crawford, that our own sailors, our own Englishmen, are sometimes tied to the grates, then flogged with a cat o’ nine tails, until the blood streams down their backs, and so are our soldiers in the army, and if a primitive heathen is too good to be flogged, the same as an honest Englishman, why the world is topsy-turvy, I would say.”
“As you like, Mr. Crawford, but the slave is taken by force away from his home—”
“Nor has your brother ever once mentioned press gangs to you? You grew up in Portsmouth, did you not? Surely you know about the press gangs?”
“Why, y-yes,” Fanny admitted, hesitantly. “Although we always supposed that the gangs were rounding up sailors who had deserted their posts, or who were not doing themselves any good on shore, being drunkards, and who were the better for being on ship and under discipline—” here she paused, unhappily, thinking of her own father.
“And, have you never heard of the miserable, brutish life of the women who must pull the coal carts on their hands and knees through the dark, airless tunnels of our coal mines? Have you never seen the little children who earn their living by crawling up our chimneys and brushing out the soot? Is there not enough suffering here in our ‘precious stone set in the silver sea’ for you to bestow your benevolent concern upon, without troubling yourself over beings half a world away?”
Fanny shook her head, “Which would you rather be, Mr. Crawford? A tin miner in Cornwall or a slave cutting down sugar cane?”
Crawford laughed, and tipped his hat to her. “I would rather be who I am—but look out the window, Mrs. Crawford, if you please. There you will see, walking along the road, a family of farm labourers, dressed in rags, miserably drenched from the rain, with no home, nor steady employment. Observe how they run up to the passing carriages, and beg for some coins. On the other hand, the slaves on your uncle’s plantation are fed and clothed from birth until death, even after they are unfit for heavy work by reason of injury or old age. They are not used for one season and cast aside like the free-born men of England.”
“Life is unjust, indeed, Mr. Crawford, and it is our duty to relieve the suffering of the poor and to teach them how they may improve their own condition. But by your arguments, have you sought to excuse one injustice with illustrations of other cruel situations? Shall we despair of remedying any evils, because we cannot remedy all of them? These abolitionists have chosen this cause, and renounced eating the products of slavery, to help eradicate—”
“Oh, L-rd bless us no, no, no—no wife of mine is going to become an anti-Saccharite!” Crawford laughed. “My dear Mrs. Crawford, the first thing I plan to do when we arrive at Everingham is to instruct my cook to stuff you full of good things, like puddings, and cakes and trifles and syllabubs, in the hopes of getting some flesh on you, for er…. for the sake of your health, so please don’t tell me you will refuse to eat sugar!”
“My resolution is weak, Mr. Crawford, I own, nor would I want to be a hypocrite and pretend, as I said, that the home comforts we enjoyed at Mansfield Park were not as a result of sugar. I simply wish to study and understand this question better.”
“Pray consider this, Mrs. Crawford,” Henry leaned forward and took her hand. “If your uncle, in a fit of benevolence, were to release all of his slaves, what do you suppose would be the result? In all likelihood, none of them would know how to take care of themselves, and would be reduced to worser straits than they were on his plantation. The more brutish amongst them would threaten the lives of the Englishmen and women, and yes, even the children. Our own peoples would be overthrown and massacred, as happened to the Frenchmen in Saint Domingue. It is easy to say, ‘free the slaves’ but responsible men must consider the consequences.”
Fanny nodded, not intending to agree but simply to show that she was attending to what he had to say, and acknowledged it was a difficult question, and privately wished that her friend William Gibson was there, so that she could simply sit quietly and say nothing, and listen to a debate betwixt them.
“And one other thing,” her companion added, as he settled comfortably back in his seat. “Who d’you suppose provides those slaves in the first place. Their own rulers, back in Africa. They round up their own people—or whoever is in a different tribe from their own tribe—and sell them off for trinkets. I dare say they are better off under English management than under their own kings. And of course,” he added complacently, composing himself for a nap. “The Negroes are brought to a knowledge of our Christian religion—they are brought out of the darkness of their heathen ways.” He yawned.
Fanny smiled politely, and resumed reading her pamphlets. The thought occurred to her that a few months ago, she would have maintained her silence because she felt too abashed to interpose her own judgment
