The Voyage of Promise (17 page)

C
ome!”

Ethan Preston’s hand brushed against Grace’s arm in an ever-so-subtle gesture as he whispered her name. Grace had lingered for some time out by the barn hoping Ena would pass by. When she did not, Grace hesitantly approached the coffeehouse. Her timing could not have been better, for Mister Preston had just stepped out the door. Grace followed him around to the back behind the seller’s booth. With an expert hand, Ethan slid the panel open and ushered Grace up the hidden stairs. He was right behind her.

“… because, as evidenced in the Magna Carta, we English are a people uniquely devoted to liberty!” proclaimed Oliver Meredith with great energy and expression. He was the youngest member of the group, and scorning such aristocratic formalities as powdered wigs and silk coats, he wore his wild hair tied back with a cord, and a simple linen shirt tucked into his breeches. “Where, then, could be a better place for the elimination of the curse of slavery to take root than right here on our glorious shores? And who better to lead that gallant fight around the world than we, the people of England?”

“Hear, hear, Mister Meredith!” Ethan Preston called out. “Well said! I should like to hear your entire speech, should you feel inclined to rehearse it again.”

Heath Patterson clapped his hands. “Most appropriate, my lad. I have with me the documents collected by my Quaker brethren.”

The room seemed charged with a special urgency that Grace had not felt on her first visit. Heath Patterson’s wife, Rebekah, leaned forward in her chair, intent on catching every word. And Lady Susanna, who sat on the other side of Rebekah, tapped her foot impatiently.

Sir Thomas was the exception. The slender man with such an aristocratic carriage, his ever-present triangular hat on his head, leaned back in his chair. His legs crossed comfortably, he listened with his eyes half-closed.

Grace looked around the room for Jesse, but he was not there. Neither was Ena. Suddenly feeling terribly out of place, Grace wished she had not come, either.

“Ena told us your story, Miss Grace,” Mister Preston began. “I do hope that does not add to your distress. But knowing our determination to see this wretched business brought to an end, she felt it best that we understand. And I must tell you, every one of us was deeply moved by what you have been forced to endure.”

“The heartlessness of it all!” exclaimed Lady Susanna. “Your poor, poor little one!”

“What has become of us?” Mister Patterson asked, shaking his head. “We are a civilized, Christian people. Surely the day will come when we will all be called to an accounting by our maker.”

Grace looked with wonder at the anguished, compassionate looks of the people surrounding her. People unlike her, who had never felt the softness of Kwate’s face, who had never
known the strength of Cabeto’s arm. Yet how they cared! A whole new emotion welled up inside her.

“My father was English,” Grace said with pride.

Lady Susanna motioned Grace to the chair beside her. When she was settled, Mister Preston cleared his throat. “Not too many days hence—two, perhaps three—important men will meet with us,” he said, “Members of Parliament—MPs who have begun to listen to our voices with more than a bit of sympathy. Because we will have only one opportunity to address them, our presentation must of necessity depend heavily upon our careful collection of documents.” He looked at Grace. “And now, at this important time, you have come to us.”

“For such a time as this,” Grace breathed.

“Your story has touched each of us profoundly,” Mister Preston said. “Would you be willing to meet with these gentlemen from Parliament and relate your story to them? To touch the hearts of the ones who actually hold in their hands the power to change our nation’s laws?”

Grace stared at Ethan Preston. “Yes,” she said. “I will tell them everything. And then I will plead for my Cabeto.”

Before anyone had a chance to respond, Ena topped the stairs.

“Something is about to happen!” she gasped, out of breath. “I heard it at Larkspur Estate, just after I finished cleaning the silverware!”

“Sit down, my dear,” said Mister Preston. He and Heath Patterson each rushed to get her a chair. “Please, try to compose yourself.”

Ena sat and gulped deeply. Then she said, “Two men came for Lord Witherham, and I listened at the door. That’s when I heard them tell his Lordship that in the regrettable event
that anyone from Parliament must die, they must be protected from any blame.”

“Die?” Sir Thomas asked incredulously. “Why, surely those men with Witherham are not killers.”

“That’s not what Jesse says,” Oliver Meredith countered.

Mister Preston looked at Mister Meredith with growing alarm, then back to Ena. “What else did the men say?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Ena exclaimed in exasperation. “Only for Lord Reginald to stay away from the coffeehouse so he would not be to blame.”

Ethan Preston dropped down onto his chair. “We must meet with the MPs at once. Tomorrow, if possible. No one must know except us in this room.”

“And Jesse,” said Oliver.

“No one except us in this room!” repeated Ethan Preston. With that, the meeting time came to an abrupt and solemn end. Rebekah Patterson gripped Grace’s thin hand in her own solid ones and squeezed it tight while she and her husband said their farewells all around. They were the first to leave. Sir Thomas tipped his three-cornered hat and bowed first to Grace, then to Lady Susanna, and finally to Ena, then he was away. Lady Susanna swept soft fingertips across Grace’s hand and left in silence. Oliver Meredith said to Grace, “Thank you kindly, miss,” and then he, too, bid her good-bye.

“I will be in the coffeehouse,” Ethan Preston said, then he also headed down the stairs.

“They are good people,” Ena said to Grace.

“Yes, they are good people,” Grace agreed. “But not one of them mentioned helping Cabeto. Not one of them will get me to him.”

For a few moments Ena was silent. Then she said, “With all my heart, I wanted my mother back. But scarlet fever took
her, and she is gone. I long to know my father, but he is lost to me in the West Indies. I am alone. I do not like it, but I accept it.”

“My Kwate, who picked up bright red bissap blossoms as they blew down from the trees and brought them to me so I could make my tea, my little son who ran and never walked, who climbed and never sat still, my Kwate is lost to me forever. I can hardly bear to remember the music of his sweet voice as he called out to me,” Grace said. “And my Mama Muco. Will I ever see her again? My heart tells me I will not.”

“Cabeto too,” Ena said gently. “He also is lost to you.”

“No! Little Kwate is gone from this world. And Mama Muco stays where I cannot return. But Cabeto… I can still reach him. And I shall!”

“I am not saying it would be best for you to forget Cabeto, Grace. Of course he will remain with you forever in your memory. But you must let go of him. Use his story to help change laws. That way you will protect others from the fate he suffered. That’s what you can do for Cabeto.”

Grace shook her head. “It is not enough!” she said.

Ethan Preston topped the stairs. “A man in the coffeehouse is asking questions about you, Miss Grace.”

“Me! Who is he?”

“I do not know,” said Mister Preston. “An Englishman. A large man, but he does not look at all well. His hair is thin and loose, and he wears no wig. His speech seems hampered somewhat, perhaps by the great gaps of missing teeth.”

“Mister Hathaway!” Grace cried in alarm. “It is Mister Hathaway. He has come to get me! He will make me his slave again!”

S
lap… slap… slap… The constant rhythm of waves hitting against the ship’s hull formed a never-ending backdrop against which a boundless expanse of time stretched out in the hold of the
Golden Hawk
. The relentless beat only stopped when the ship hit seas rough enough to throw everything into confusion.

Slap… slap… slap. Against that steady cadence, accented by the rattle of chains, crooned a chorus of unbroken moans and humming cries. Every now and again it was punctuated by a soprano shriek or a baritone bellow.
The music of misery
, Cabeto called it. Day after day after day, a repeat performance of the same cruel chorus.

“Cabeto!” Sunba’s scorched voice called from several rows away. “You did not call my name today.”

“What does it matter?” Cabeto answered. “No one is left to answer but you and me and Tawnia, and she refuses to speak.”

“We are left,” Sunba answered. “We matter.”

With a creak and a groan, the door cleared the hatch overhead. Two sailors struggled down the ladder, lugging a
heavy cooking pot between them. Immediately the humming chorus switched to a cacophony of relentless begging and sobbed pleas.

At the beginning of the voyage, each captive cupped two hands together to capture the twice-daily meal allotment, and even then they fought the rats for every single spilled morsel. But as provisions ran low, the bean porridge was only served once a day. Now the food supplies must be really short because the once-daily portion would barely fill a single hand.

“More, more!” one person after another pleaded in a pitiful harmony of languages.

But the only reward for begging was a swift kick.

When Cabeto’s helping of porridge and beans was slopped into his outstretched hand, he gulped it every bit as voraciously as everyone else. Then he licked his hand clean, slurping between his fingers and down his arms. Two more sailors followed with a water bucket—one dipper-full for each person. The woman next to Cabeto grabbed at the dipper with such desperate anticipation that she tipped it over and spilled the contents onto the floor.

“Too bad fer ye!” the sailor said as he moved along.

The woman grabbed his leg and screamed out pleas, but he kicked her away. She shrieked and begged, but he had already moved on. Straining at the chains that bound her, the woman licked frantically at the water puddled on the filthy floor. The sailor never looked back.

The white men struggled to hoist the porridge pot back up the ladder, then they passed the bucket up after it. One by one, they climbed up and disappeared through the hole.

Cabeto waited for them to pull the door shut, and the music of misery to rise up again.

But the door didn’t close. What did that mean? Occasionally, the sailors left the door open, presumably to allow a bit of
fresh air down into the oppressive hold. But on this day, shadows passed back and forth though the shaft of light that shone through the open hatch. Someone was doing something near the opening.

“Git on yer dancin’ shoes!” a sailor called down from the top of the ladder.

Few of the Africans understood English, but every one of them knew the word “dance.” Although they were glad enough to get out of their cramped positions, dancing exercise sessions meant excruciating pain. And it meant danger too. Especially now. For if provisions were indeed running low, as the cut in rations indicated, this would give the captain an opportunity to rid the ship of the weakest among them.

While two sailors stood on the stairs with guns at the ready, five others, gasping in spite of the handkerchiefs tied across their noses and mouths, climbed down and spread out among the Africans. They unlocked the chains that bolted the slaves to the ship’s wooden timbers, but the manacles on their feet the sailors left in place. Then they herded the Africans up the stairs.

“Stand straight,” Cabeto urged those around him. “Hold your head up high. They watch us.”

As the captives emerged into the daylight, they staggered backward. It had been so long since any of them had seen light that the sun blinded their eyes. But the guards gave them no time to adjust. They pushed the slaves forward. The captives had no choice but to struggle onto the deck, where they huddled together. Once all were up on top, the guards prodded them out of their huddles.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump
…

A sailor off to the side grinned broadly as he pounded out a slow beat on his drum. About a dozen other sailors gathered
around to watch, many clapping in time, or stamping a foot or slapping a leg.

“When ye goin’ to start the show?” one called out.

In answer, First Mate Seth Watson pushed his way up in front of the other sailors. He cradled a vicious-looking leather cat-o-nine-tails in the crook of his arm.

“Dance!” Seth ordered.

The Africans glanced uncertainly from Seth to the drummer, then around at their fellow captives.

Seth raised the cat from his arm and swung it around him ever so easily—just with enough threat to make certain his message was not lost. Many of the captives’ backs already bore the marks of that cruel cat.

“
Dance!
” Seth ordered again in a voice that meant
now
!

To the sailors’ delight, Cabeto jumped upward and jerked his feet out to the extent his manacles would allow. The sailors laughed and cheered, yelling for more. Excruciating pain shot though Cabeto’s legs, yet he forced himself to leap again.

“Dance!” he warned the others in his own tongue.

Because he commanded it, the others obeyed. Awkwardly and painfully, through tears and pleas for mercy, they danced.

Cabeto spotted Sunba up near the front of the group, over by the door with the ladder that led down to the hold. But for a long time he could not find Tawnia. Finally he located her on the far side near the railing, but she wasn’t really dancing. In fact, she was barely moving at all.

“Tawnia,” Cabeto called with a note of desperation.

The girl showed no sign that she had heard him.

“Dance, Tawnia!” Cabeto warned.

The drummer picked up the pace, and the clapping, stomping sailors did the same. Seth Watson beat out the faster rhythm with his lash, and the captives did their best to keep up.

Near the front, a broad-faced man with dusky brown skin and badly swollen eyes stumbled and fell to his knees. Seth Watson grasped the lash with both hands. The man winced. He understood the threat well enough and he pulled himself up to his feet. But after only a couple of lurching dance attempts, he once again fell flat. Seth didn’t even bother with the whip. He simply motioned to two sailors who grabbed up the man and lugged him toward the side. The man screamed at the sailors in a language Cabeto couldn’t understand, and made a feeble attempt to struggle. But the sailors ignored him. They dragged him to the railing and threw him over.

Two women next to the railing gasped out loud and froze absolutely still. But when Seth turned toward them, they jumped to and resumed their dancing with a frantic frenzy.

Cabeto sneaked a look at Tawnia. She continued to stand absolutely still, and she paid Seth no mind whatsoever.

“Dance, Tawnia!” Cabeto yelled, although he dared not look at her for fear of calling attention to her. “Please, dance! Please!”

When Cabeto dared to steal a glance in Tawnia’s direction, he saw to his dismay that instead of dancing, she was moving toward the railing. Taking care to keep his eyes from the young girl, he stopped dancing and in the most derisive tone he could muster, he screamed out African words. Sure enough, Seth Watson descended upon him and set to with his cat. He knocked Cabeto flat and laid his back open.

What Seth didn’t know was that Cabeto’s words were intended for only one person—Tawnia. What Cabeto said was “I beg you to stay! Please, please, for every one of us… stay and dance!”

As Cabeto lay on the deck, his back shredded, twelve-year-old Tawnia eased up onto the railing, leaned back, and let go.

“Dance!” Seth Watson ordered Cabeto.

Cabeto pulled himself to his feet, willing himself to embrace the blinding pain that ripped through his body. Ignoring the drummer’s beat, he raised his legs as high as the manacles would permit, but in a completely different rhythm—a tormented one of haunting beauty.

When the captives were finally herded back down into the hold, one after another pleaded in English, “Wa-ter! Wa-ter!” But they got none.

Tomorrow. Maybe. For those who still lived.

Cabeto lay still in the closed-in blackness, his back seared with pain and his legs throbbing. He ordered himself to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out.

The chorus of misery took up where it had left off—steady moans and undulating cries layered one on top of the other, each in time with the breaking waves and rattling chains. How Cabeto longed to wail out his own lament above all the rest, long and loud. To scream and rail at the injustice that had swallowed them alive. But he did not. He didn’t even weep, for every last tear had already been wrung from his soul.

Instead, mustering his last reserve of strength, Cabeto called out: “Sunba!”

“I am here, brother,” came the answer. “I am here.”