“Leave the thinking to me, if you will. Few men in Jamaica of your class—of any class—have university degrees. They do not consider it necessary over there. They have family and position in society to hold them up. You will not have those advantages, but you will have the education.” He leaned forward, toward me. “You will take law studies at Cambridge, not so much for the content of the law as for the ability to think clearly, to see beyond the obvious, to make an argument, if necessary. You understand that?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir,” I said, hardly knowing whether I understood or not, but realizing that that was the answer he expected.
“Life in Jamaica is very different from here. Slaves do everything. I meaneverything. If you drop your napkin from your lap, if you want a book from the other side of the room, from the time you dress in the morning until your bedcovers are turned down for you at night, slaves will follow along behind to do what you have always done for yourself. It will take time to acclimatize yourself to all of that, to say nothing of the climate itself. However, there is one thing—one thing—you will have that will be to your advantage, and that will be your university education. For that reason, if for no other, you will make the most of yourself at Cambridge.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again, bewildered. University? I had not been at school since I was thirteen years of age, and even then it was at Black Hill, which to my mind seemed more play than study.
As if he fully understood my thoughts, my father interrupted my musings. “You are thinking you have never been traditionally schooled, are you not?”
“I am.”
“You would be correct. And there are reasons for that. I might have said more accurately that in the next weeks you will be with me in the mornings; in the afternoon you will go to Mr. Horace Gayle, who will coax your brain back into action. You must be ready for Trinity College in the autumn.”
“I understand, sir,” I said, suddenly excited at the prospect. College: no doubt just as Rowland had done. My father really did have my best interests in mind.
“From Mr. Lincoln’s reports, your education was acceptable, if not exemplary.”
“He is quite a unique teacher.”
“Lincoln’s boys do particularly fine at university, I have learned. You are no doubt wondering why I also sent you to Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes, sir, I have wondered that.”
“You needed some experience of life in your background before going up to university. To my way of thinking there are three kinds of young men at university. The first are the eldest sons, who will inherit money and position and will never have to worry about earning a pound and who only need finishing off, and who can, as well, benefit from becoming acquainted with other young men of their same class, and forming lifelong relationships. The second are the second or third or fourth sons, who will not inherit—boys like you—who need the education so that they will not make wastrels of themselves, or, worse, popinjays who live off wealthy widows.” He stared at me for a moment to make sure I was understanding him. “The third are smart boys of poor families, in whom some wealthy person has taken an interest, and who come in hopes of bettering their chances in life. In your case, you will not have to entirely make your own fortune; I have paved the way for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Keep in mind: Jamaica will not be, perhaps, as you expect it.”
***
We started immediately after breakfast, walking down to the docks, inspecting his ships, of which he owned three, and two happened to be in port. Then it was on to an inn where he conferred with a couple of gentlemen, and to an importer’s office, and to dinner with another group of men. When it suited him, he introduced me—always as “my son, Edward Fairfax”—and I would nod and tip my hat and they would nod. I listened, though much of the time it seemed a continuation of a discussion that had occurred previously. My father, of course, never explained anything. If I hadn’t had five years at Maysbeck Mill behind me, I would have been completely lost; as it was, I was only half in ignorance.
After dinner, my father sent me off to Mr. Gayle, a short, dumpy man who did not rise when his maid brought me into his room and who gazed at me from behind thick eyeglasses before pointing to a chair. Even after I was seated he continued staring for a time until he said, “Mr. Lincoln, was it? Mr.Hiram Lincoln?” He spat the name out as if it had come from the back of his gullet.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “It was Mr. Hiram Lincoln, of Black Hill. I was with him for five years.” At least Mr. Gayle would not condemn Mr. Lincoln for not teaching the proper way to answer a query.
“And now it has been as many years since you left him.”
“Yes, sir, it has been.”
He thrust a book at me. “Let us see if you remember anything.”
The text was Ovid, whom I had never particularly liked. I was rusty with the Latin, but after a few too many stumbles, I righted myself and was able to make a respectable showing. After a time, he shoved another book at me: Herodotus, whom I had always loved, and I slipped seamlessly into the Greek, despite the fact that my Greek was far worse than my Latin. But again I surprised myself—and Mr. Gayle as well—leading me to silently wonder if he knew Mr. Lincoln’s proclivities.
Mr. Gayle let me read for quite some time before stopping me and asking if I had my mathematics as well in hand. I said I did but allowed that my natural philosophy was poorer. “Yes, then,” he said, leaning back in his chair—or doing the best impression of leaning back that he could manage, given that his spine was evidently permanently bowed. “And geography?” he asked.
“Fairly good.”
“Music?”
“I can play the piano tolerably. And I can sing a bit.”
He waved his hand, as if the singing were of no consideration. “Shakespeare?” he asked.
I nodded vigorously. “The histories especially I know.”
Instead of being pleased, he shook his head. “Lincoln,” he said. “Of course the histories. The Bible?”
