Enterprise

Part of an occasional series of writings by Nora O'Hare and H.J. O'Hare 

On a bleak night early in the year 1781 two Belfast business men, friends of long standing, set out to attend a meeting in the old Linen Hall—-in the place we now call Ann Street. The men were a linen factor, exporter to Bristol, noted for his keen brain and honest dealing— he had recently dismissed two of his agents for handing their seals to innkeepers in the country to stamp what bales they received, for the seal was the buyers’ warranty.

His friend was a watchmaker and jeweller, successful too, a staunch, Godfearing man, but in public life shy and retiring. Keen men both and because of that summoned both to hear of a new project that was, said the letters, calculated to bring much profit and traffic to the port of Belfast.

They walked some way down the drive of the elder man’s home, set on an eminence and, by day, commanding a fine view of Belfast Lough and the Down coast. But the night was impenetrably black and before long both were glad to hear the clop-clop of horses as the coachman overtook them on the drive.

“If that’s not like you, John!” the visitor growled good-humouredly. “I believe you'd rather walk all the three miles than have the horses wait outside on such a night.”

“You're saying no more than is true, ‘Tom. Beasts, too, have their feelings and it is not my way to forget it.”

Soon they were jogging along in comfort on their way to the town. “Have you any idea at all, Tom, of the purpose of to-night‘s meeting?’ asked his host.

“None at all—beyond the assurance in the circular that it will increase the trade of the port and that, as you know, is a project that will have my unstinted support.”

A short silence fell—the thoughts of each going their own way. In the dimly lit carriage John, the older, seemed to carry his years so well that it made the younger say suddenly: “Tell me, John, did you not find the climate of Africa wearying and a menace to your health?”

“I've heard that question often,” his host answered, “but truth to tell it suited me excellently—-remember I spent only a short time on business there — it was the people, the Europeans, that made me cut my time to six short months.”

“Ah, yes, you hinted something of the sort,” replied his companion.

“It was their barefaced robbery of native populations, their trickery, meanness and cruelty that made me feel ashamed of my kind. I came to dread having to meet decent native officials — the thing obsessed me — I could scarcely look my black house boys in the face. Horrible... shameful.”

Business for the Port?

The speaker stopped and mopped his brow. "I understand," was all his friend could say. Their carriage soon began to bump along noisily and its lurching indicated that they had entered the roughly cobbled environs of the corn markets. Soon it stopped and the men dismounted in a narrow laneway lit with paraffin and wax flares and leading to the broad thoroughfare where the hall stood.

They could now see business men and acquaintances all converging on the Linen Hall. It was obvious that a big meeting would take place. One thing these people had in common, all were of the prosperous merchant class, linen factors, chandlers and corn dealers, property dealers and here and there a shipping agent or port warden. Greetings were exchanged and some guesses as to the purpose of the meeting.

Presently, as men of some importance, an usher found them seats in a prominent position. They surveyed the rapidly filling hall. What they saw pleased them. Belfast was growing Enterprise throve here. Among those in the hall Tom recognised many who were his own good customers — a jeweller could always tell where money lay.

Then the business of the night began. A man was speaking. They were come together he said, to add a new chapter to the story of their thriving port. They had on hand a project that would bring wealth to their town. Already Bristol, Liverpool and many other ports derived vast revenue from this lucrative trade — but it was a question of initiative, and he would put it to them they were not lacking in that. His would be brief. The question he wished to ask was if there were enough men of foresight in this audience to buy and equip a small fleet to go in search of this lucrative trade? He was as he supposed many of them had guessed speaking of the carrying trade in African slaves just then enriching so many lands.

No Slave Ship Sailed

Amid much applause he sat down.. But two men in the audience felt their blood run all cold. To the elder the shock was too much, his thoughts shouted aloud but his paralysed throat would not speak, would not obey, his limbs would not stir. Blind, impotent tears gathered behind his eyes — but he could not speak. Nor need he. His friend has noted all — but he is a shy man, he has never spoken in public. The meeting approves the idea, speaker after speaker rises, a questionnaire is passing round many are signing.

“How. much will you give?”
“A good thing.”
“To be in at the beginning.”

And now an usher is before them: “You will sign? Sign here.” Two seats away he hears the query: “Ah, Mr. McCabe — you’ll not miss this golden opportunity — my little joke!” It is a challenge. The usher is waiting, others are waiting to sign the paper after him, many are looking at him. He is holding up the meeting but he has never addressed a meeting before: Courage is needed, daring — enterprise. Presently his host of the night is astonished, he sees Tom has risen. Yes, he is on his feet — what on earth is he going to say?

“Gentlemen. And you, sir’ — this to the usher — "take away this paper and this pen. I will not sign. I will not contribute one penny piece to this infamous scheme. May my hand be paralysed and my arm wither if they serve me to add a page of shame to the story of my town. Is enterprise dead in Belfast? Have we nothing left that we can sell? Are we indeed reduced to the ignominious exchange of the battered bodies of our fellow humans, our fellow men from Africa? Shall I for any gain, any worldly gain, become a dealer in the blood of the African? Gentlemen, will YOU?”

Amazed at his own boldness he sits down. The tone of the meeting is changing, many people lean forward to shake his hand. The usher stands irresolute, his paper in his hand. And then Tom’s friend reaches for it, tears it across and then again, amid applause, The meeting is over.

And so Belfast owes it to Thomas McCabe watchmaker, of this town that no slave ship ever left the Lagan and that Belfast never made one penny piece out of this nefarious trade —— not even when it throve under royal favour - this wicked traffic in human flesh which besmirched the name of so many countries and at one time or another disgraced almost ever other port in Europe.

* Original publication date unknown. Would guess 1950's/ 1960's