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  At the conclusion of the short and unsatisfactory service, it was understood that we members of the Literary Club would repair to a nearby familiar tavern in order that we might drink toast after toast in the doctor's honour until late into the night. Aside from rehearsing the details of the great man's life, there would be other subjects for discussion, including the controversial nature of the day's truncated ceremony, and the question of the will and the disposal of the doctor's assets. These subjects would undoubtedly keep myself and my fellow devotees of Dr Johnson happily occupied for many hours, but I knew full well that Francis Barber, without the protection of his master, would not be invited to join the company. As I stood to take my leave of the abbey, I looked again at this forlorn figure bent forward in the pew and seemingly reluctant to rise to his feet. It occurred to me that the Christian thing to do might be to approach the negro and offer him sincere commiserations for his loss, thereby once again extending the hand of friendship, but I had no desire to place the servant in an awkward predicament and so I cast him a final glance and strode purposefully down the aisle towards daylight, leaving this abandoned man alone in the abbey with his master and his dark thoughts.

  Some sixteen years after the funeral of the good doctor, I found myself comfortably appointed inside a carriage that was bowling into Lichfield, a fair-sized city with a reputation bolstered by Mr Daniel Defoe's favourable comments in which he recorded that he considered Lichfield a place for 'good conversation and good company'. I had been led to believe that this low-lying city, surrounded by fields and woods and marshes, was principally distinguished by its fortunate location, situated as it is 110 miles north of London, and a mere 14 miles beyond Birmingham. This places the city in an advantageous position on the main coaching route to the north-west and Ireland, but I understood Lichfield to be also renowned for its beautiful, yet somewhat eccentric, cathedral that was long ago constructed out of faded red stone, and which displays not one but three spires. I had arranged to spend a single night at the Three Crowns, a respectable inn that I had been led to believe was situated close by the doctor's childhood home. Having arrived at my destination, I announced myself to the ruddy-faced innkeeper who quickly escorted me to my room on the first floor. He informed me that dinner would soon be served, and as my hunger had been powerfully aroused by the long journey I suggested to him that I would like to dine as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes somewhat apologetically as he informed me that it might take his cook a full half-hour to prepare my meal, but in the meantime he encouraged me to try some Staffordshire oatcakes and a jug of Lichfield Olde Ale, which I hastily declined.

  I dined alone, but under the judicious scrutiny of a young drudge who had clearly been instructed to cater to my needs. I ignored the lackey and carefully observed the boisterous local folk, who noisily refreshed themselves with draught after draught of malty beer. Having finished my adequate, but by no means exceptional, meal I interrogated my simple host with regards to the origins of the city, at which point he asked permission to join my table. He told me that legend had it that around AD 300, and during the reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, over 1,000 Christians were martyred nearby. According to this man, the name Lichfield actually means the 'field of the dead'. My host refreshed my glass of port-wine before laughing out loud and conceding that there was no evidence to support this fact, but he knew it to be true and beyond contention. He also 'knew' that there were no thatched roofs in Lichfield because of the risk of fire, a peculiarity which set this city apart from most English centres to the north or south. Exulting in what he imagined to be his own pleasantry, he continued and informed me that Queen Mary had long ago made Lichfield its own county, so that while the city stands in Staffordshire it does not take part as a member of the said same county. And what, I asked, now warming to the task which had occasioned me to leave London and travel to Lichfield, of the city's prominent or notorious citizenry? At this my host was quick to laugh out loud and proclaim two names that he insisted would be familiar to any who held English to be his tongue: David Garrick and Samuel Johnson. As though this were too easy a resolution to my question he continued and, clearly relishing the heat of conversation and the close proximity to controversy, he lowered his voice and informed me that some 200 years ago the last person to be burnt at the stake in England for heresy was burnt in Lichfield. I nodded sagely and then bided my time before asking after negroes. 'Negroes?' The man seemed confused. 'Around here?' he asked. I said nothing further and waited for him to continue, and then I saw his pockmarked cheeks begin to flush. 'I see. I suppose a gentlemen like you must be asking after Frank Barber?'

  I slept badly in the awkward bed, for the whole contraption seemed to be woefully misshapen from having no doubt supported the fatigued bodies of countless exhausted pilgrims. Being one who was not familiar with the turmoil of undertaking frequent excursions, leaving London constituted for me a great adventure of sorts. Having recently retired from my commercial business in the City, where I grew to despise the vulgar rapacity of the sugar and slave men of the West Indies, I had recently begun to contemplate some involvement in the Province of Freedom – Mr Granville Sharp's scheme for resettling blacks on the west coast of Africa in an efficiently managed colony – as a way of honourably investing my money for profit and charitably passing my days. This being the case, my ageing mind was forever returning to the disturbing image of poor Francis Barber all alone in Westminster Abbey, and I finally understood that before making any decision about my own future philanthropic investments it might profit me to revisit the past and try to discover what had become of the forlorn negro. I wondered, was he yet another example of a poor transplanted African whose roots had refused to properly catch the soil of our fair land? Or had life beyond his master's departure showered the negro with good fortune? It chanced that my late-night conversation with the lumpish innkeeper had helped to clarify the situation. Eventually the light of day began to spill through the shuttered windows, and I heard stirrings in the various rooms about the Three Crowns, but I did not move. Recalling the previous evening's conversation, I found myself caught in a web of indecision. Should I follow my host's suggestion and seek out the widow, Mrs Elizabeth Barber, or should I simply depart in the direction of London and admit defeat in my quest. I lay in bed while the day announced itself as a fine summer's morning, and then I heard a timid knock upon the door which I assumed would be the servant bearing water for my ablutions.

  The carriage bounced its way unceremoniously down the rutted lane, and I was sure that the ancient driver was deriving childish pleasure from seeking the most difficult and bone-jarring route. The carriage window afforded a fine prospect, and I looked warmly upon the young English maidens labouring merrily in the fields who knew that at the end of their working day there would be liberty and freedom. How different a life it was for those who we forced to expend themselves in the tropical fields of the West Indies. At the end of their day, there was neither liberty nor freedom, but merely the expectation of more suffering unredeemed by any financial or material gain. I continued to stare at the young maidens, but soon realised that, despite their obvious beauty, I should avert my eyes and focus my mind on the task at hand. The previous evening my host, having conveyed the dreadful news of Francis Barber's demise, had continued and informed me that, to the best of his knowledge, the family of Francis Barber had last been heard of living in a place named Burntwood, a hamlet that lay only four miles beyond the city to the west. Having given me this information, the innkeeper had ceased speaking for a few moments as though his mind was tormented with some burdensome secret. 'You do understand,' he said, 'that this is not a place to which those such as yourself habitually journey. Truly, there is nothing there of any consequence.' Again he paused. 'Except, of course, that you will most likely discover Mrs Barber.' With this said the man once again topped off our glasses with wine, and thereafter we fell silent for what remained of the evening. Securing the services of the ancient driver and
carriage had been relatively simple, for the innkeeper had made it his business to assist me. However, this morning, when my host informed the driver that Burntwood was to be my destination, the puzzled look on the face of the wizened man spoke eloquently to all that the innkeeper had suggested. It was difficult to ascertain if the aged driver was genuinely offended, or merely temporarily surprised, at having been instructed to undertake a journey to such a place.

  We eventually drew up beside a tall, unruly, hedgerow that was clearly in need of some attention. Initially, I found it difficult to understand why my driver had stopped the carriage for I could see no sign of human life. However, taking the whip in his right hand, the ancient man pointed beyond the hedgerow to a modestly proportioned stone cottage which I now understood to be my destination. The morning sun had been kind to my bones and so I required no immediate assistance descending from the contraption, although the driver rightfully made his services available to me. 'Wait here,' I insisted, and then, gathering my wits about me, I walked gingerly towards the unprepossessing abode and knocked sharply on the door. The ominous silence was disturbed only by the pleasing sound of birds singing and a brook babbling somewhere in the distance. I knocked again, and this time shouted out loud in the hope that I might attract the attention of somebody within, but it appeared that I succeeded only in alarming my carriage driver, for the decrepit fellow left his vehicle and hastened to my side imagining that I must be crying out for help. On discovering that I was perfectly safe, and merely attempting to arouse the inhabitants of the dwelling, he rearranged himself and withdrew again to his carriage leaving me perfectly alone.

  It was then that the door began to slowly open, the crying of the rusty hinges announcing the action, and a shadowy head soon emerged and stared up in my direction. A strangely coloured and clearly disconsolate child, with eyes as big as two saucers, stared up at me, but seemed reluctant to say anything. I bade the apparition a good morning and asked if its mother was hereabouts. The child, which I now determined to be female, shook its fuzzy head, which at least suggested an intelligence of the English language. I asked the girl if she imagined that her mother might show herself in the near future, but it appeared that this question stretched her comprehension a little too far, for the urchin simply stared back at me with frigid indifference and said nothing. Clearly I had arrived at the right place, for this dirty-looking child was obviously the product of a union between one of England's fair wenches and a negro, presumably Francis Barber.

  However, it was evident that there was little point in trying to draw the creature into conversation for its understanding was clearly limited, and its mother had obviously absented herself for the day.

  By the time I returned to Lichfield it was midday, but my curiosity was so piqued by the discovery of the child that I determined to see what more I might learn about the fate of Francis Barber from my host. It transpired that the phlegmatic innkeeper had absconded to Birmingham on an urgent matter of business, but his portly wife informed me that her husband would certainly return by the evening. I thanked her for the information, and then spent a good part of the afternoon exploring the modest city of Lichfield by foot. To my dismay, the place appeared to lack a coffee house where a man might settle into a snug and partake of some wholesome liquor while perusing the gazette or public papers and, in the convivial company of his peers, receive news and information pertaining to both business and pleasure. Lichfield lacked not only a coffee house, but the city appeared to be thoroughly devoid of that constant flow of humanity which characterises the unique vitality of any great city, and is so abundant in my own London. The great immensity of London which assaults the ears, nose, and eyes of any visitor, where wealth, commerce, and plenty dwell next to poverty, pestilence, and despair, and where fully one-tenth of the nation's population teem and tumble together, was altogether absent in this simple place. In fact, there was little in this Lichfield that I deemed to be worthy of my scrutiny. I did see one or two fine buildings, and the architecture of the twelfth-century cathedral allowed me to soothe my eyes for an hour, but this was the sum total of Lichfield's pleasures. On arriving back at the Three Crowns I discovered that my host had recently returned, and shortly before dinner he sent word to my room that he would very much like to converse with me for he had gleaned information that I might find useful. Perhaps, he suggested, we might take a drink together after the completion of my meal.

  Again I dined alone, and with the same young attendant ministering to my needs, but the quality of the food appeared not to have improved. I signalled to the boy that he should remove my plate, and soon thereafter the innkeeper joined my table clutching a bottle of port and two glasses. He looked somewhat downcast, as though in possession of news that he was going to find difficult to convey. However, after some preliminary conversation about the beautiful day that we had enjoyed, he turned his attention to his own journey to Birmingham and began to sing the praises of the merchants of that town. I listened until his tongue stopped flapping, and the sheepish look on his face suggested that he was suddenly aware that he might possibly be exhausting my patience. He poured yet another drink for us both. 'I have,' he said, 'made some discoveries about your Mr Barber.' I presumed he had and so I simply waited for him to share with me the nature of these discoveries. 'The child you saw today is Frank Barber's daughter, but I know there are also other children. Apparently the wife, Elizabeth, attempts to keep their Burntwood schoolhouse by herself, although the place enjoys an enrolment of only four pupils, and it is said that it will probably close before the year is out for want of custom. Mrs Barber's skills as a teacher are not greatly in demand, but her fees are such that practically any pocket can afford her ser vices. According to the intelligence of those who were prepared to speak with me on this sad subject, those in desperate need would today rather send their children elsewhere than to Mrs Barber, so it's inevitable that soon the school will be no more.' At this he paused, as though trying to impress the gravity of the situation upon me, but I said nothing and merely took a sip of my wine. 'And then,' he continued, 'there is the case of Frank Barber himself. His final days hereabouts in Lichfield were not easy, filled as they were with both illness and poverty. Apparently Mr Barber squandered the not inconsiderable sum of money that his master left to him in his will. Furthermore, if you don't mind my saying, the fellow did let himself go, for when I last saw him he'd lost all his teeth, and his face was severely marked with the pox. He was as sad and as broken as a man can be while still remaining with us in this world.' The innkeeper paused. 'Of course, his last offence was to insist on wearing his late master's clothes, although they had clearly long past all usage. It was a truly pitiful sight.'

  I listened but chose to say nothing in response to my host's words, but of course London society had long been aware of Francis Barber's descent into financial difficulties. Following his departure to Lichfield, some two years after his master's death, many had answered Francis' calls for money, for the negro claimed to have incurred significant expenses due to his own failing health and that of his delicate children, and the poor man appeared to be permanently fastened into coils of debt and anxiety. However, having squandered the generous sum that his late master had left for him in his will, and having often displayed 'vulgar insolence' in his written communication with those who had tried valiantly to help him, there were soon few in the doctor's circle who felt either sympathy or concern for the negro's welfare. Within a few years of his arrival in Lichfield, the careless Barber had also, much to the dismay of his few remaining supporters, managed to fully deplete the capital which had been set aside to provide him with an annuity. The nature of his presumably unhappy life on Stowe Street in Lichfield remained a mystery to those of us who remembered 'London Frank', and this, after all, was partly why I had chosen to seek out the negro, in order that I might discover for myself the full story of his fall from grace. 'I am led to believe,' continued my host, 'that Mrs Barber will be at home tomorrow, for appare
ntly today she travelled from Burntwood into Lichfield on a series of errands. I'm sure that she'll be happy to speak with a gentleman such as yourself, and particularly on the matter of her late husband. No doubt she can help you with information where perhaps I have failed your good self.' I stifled my contempt, for this outburst of false modesty on the part of my foolish host was perfectly transparent. He was asking me, in an indirect manner, what exactly was my business with Mrs Barber, but that, of course, was something that I would never divulge to a man such as this. It was then that I realised that the man was most likely in drink, and although I desired his absence I reminded myself that he was my host and I should endeavour to tolerate him for a while longer. We sat together for an hour or so more, exchanging pleasantries about the seasons, and about London and Birmingham societies, before I finally tired of this man's prattle and retired to my room where I took to my incommodious bed and discovered that, once again, the innkeeper had not had the decency to at least venture to improve matters by applying a warming pan to make the devilish cot more tolerable.

  Unable to immediately find sleep, I hoisted myself upright and squinted about the dismal chamber. Then I lit the candle and reached over and pulled the precious object from the pocket of my waistcoat. The tortoiseshell watch, which I had been led to understand the doctor had paid Mudge and Dutton the princely sum of seventeen guineas to purchase in 1768 had, on his death, been bequeathed by Johnson to his beloved negro. Apparently, as the result of a sale born of desperation, the watch had fallen into the hands of the Canon of Lichfield, at a time when the high and mighty of this city had taken advantage of the black's innocence and poverty and stripped him of all mementoes of his master. Two owners later, the watch had come into my possession at a sale of Johnsonian relics at a London coffee house, and for the past year I had kept it close to my person. I harboured some notion of presenting the watch to the negro in exchange for some testimony about the vicissitudes of his recent life, but it now appeared that the delicate timepiece would remain safely in my keep. I replaced the watch and blew out the candle, and in the darkness I allowed my mind to ruminate upon the strange case of poor Francis Barber who, along with the late writer Gustavus Vassa, was, at one time, probably the foremost negro in England. Sad that this man should have come to an unfortunate end in a place such as Lichfield, but it was possible that my curiosity about the negro's later years might now be satisfied by an audience with his widow. I cast my mind back to the malodorous carriage ride that I had shared with Francis Barber as we journeyed to the funeral of his master, and I remembered our one short conversation. I thought then, and on many other occasions previous to the day of the funeral, that being dependent upon a negro was a remarkable situation for England's greatest literary man to find himself in. Nevertheless, Dr Johnson remained a vocal and vigorous protector of his negro, who he always treated as a son as opposed to a man at his beck and call.