The Voyage of Promise (5 page)

By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main;

By our sufferings, since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart,

All sustained by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart…

“If ye loves ’em Africans, why don’t ye jist git on a boat an’ sail to Africa yerself!” a man snapped as he stomped off.

“Have any of you actually
been
to Africa?” a woman asked the chanting men and women—not with animosity, but as a sincere question. “Which is true, that the Africans suffer on the voyage or that they are pleased to be rescued from their heathen life?”

“I ’as been there,” answered a gnarled sailor with a gravel voice. “An’ I kin say this much: I won’t never go back agin. Them captives suffers, awright. ’Tis the lucky ones wot dies on the way to civilization.”

… Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted powers,

Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours!

A rock hurtled through the air and struck a stocky man at the end of the abolitionist group squarely in the chest. Gasping, he stumbled and fell backward. The woman next to him screamed and dropped her pamphlet, and for several minutes all was confusion. But a lanky man who seemed to be the leader of the Quaker group helped his comrade back to his feet. With the stocky man standing shakily beside him, the leader called out, “No harm done! No harm at all!”

Before the crowd had a chance to shake away the excitement and drift on about their business, the other two men grabbed up the dropped pamphlet and nailed it to the side of a warehouse.

“The lives of innocent men, women, and children are in our hands!” the leader called out. “But do not allow us to decide on which side of this issue you stand! Do not allow anyone to decide for you. Read the words of those who have personally experienced this most disgraceful and un-Christian of horrors that is right now being thrust upon unfortunate Africans. Then and only then, we ask you—decide for yourselves what a civilized nation should do!”

A disheveled man with filthy red hair and a ruddy face blotchy with drink stumbled from the edge of the crowd, grabbed up a good-sized chunk of broken brick, and swung his arm back. But before he could heave it at the Quaker leader, a sailor grabbed him from behind and yanked the brick out of his hand.

“Yer hicksius-doxius with gin,” the sailor scolded. “Git away with ye.”

“Wot do ye know ’bout Africans?” Joseph Winslow spat bitterly. “Wot do the lot of ye know ’bout anythin’ on that cursed shore?”

A
s he did every morning after Grace cleared away the remains of his breakfast egg and his tea with sweet cream, Jasper Hathaway said, “Put a smile on your face, Grace. I insist that you look pleasant and fetching as we stroll along the deck.”

And as she did every morning, Grace made absolutely certain not the slightest beam of pleasure brightened her countenance. Yet the melancholy wilt of her mouth, and the sorrow that glistened in her eyes, served only to make her more alluring to the seamen on board the
Willow.

As was the custom of the sea, the crew of the
Willow
served in two four-hour “watches,” or shifts of duty, with the men alternating shifts under the command of whichever officer was on watch duty. But whether on duty or not, the seamen sought out excuses to be on the main deck during the early forenoon watch.

Precisely at the sound of one bell—half past eight in the morning—Jasper Hathaway donned his coat and grasped Grace firmly by her arm. He did not offer his arm as a gentleman would to a lady, but rather he gripped her arm as though he were clamping it in a manacle.

“Pleasant and fetching,” he hissed as he propelled her toward the main deck.

As always, the main deck bustled with activity—sailors in work smocks busy at the messy chores of scrubbing down the ship and undertaking its ever-needed repair, others at work on the sails, wearing jackets cut short enough to keep from getting caught when they climbed up into the rigging. The seamen shouted back and forth to each other as they worked, adding to the constant noise of labor mixed with the cackling of chickens packed into the stacks of crates.

“Please, sir,” Captain Ross implored Mister Hathaway yet again. “I beseech you to avail yourself of the quarter deck for your daily constitutional. It being reserved for myself and the officers, a stroll there is ever so much more in agreement with a gentleman such as yourself who desires to properly escort a lass.” Captain Ross turned to Nathaniel Greenway, the ship’s navigator, who walked beside him, and pleaded, “Do you not agree, sir?”

“I remind you once again, Captain,” Mister Hathaway snapped brusquely, “the
lass
is nothing but a slave. And being such, the main deck is entirely sufficient for her—the opinion of yourself and your fellow officer notwithstanding.”

“And may I remind you, sir, that it is not possible for her to be ‘nothing but a slave,’ ” the captain replied, his voice turning icy. “This is an English ship. Therefore, whilst you are most welcome to have a personal servant at your side, we do not carry slaves, sir.”

“Indeed, Captain, I stand corrected,” Mister Hathaway said. He slid his left foot forward and, with his leg perfectly straight, executed a ridiculously exaggerated bow. “Perhaps the African heat has affected my brain. But I must confess that I find the English stand on this subject most confusing. No slaves, you say? And yet I am myself the representative of a major slaving
interest in Africa, am I not? Most incomprehensible. Do you not agree?” He walked on, pulling Grace with him. “Once again I assure you, Captain, I prefer to stroll along the main deck,” Hathaway called back, “with my
slave
!”

“A most disagreeable fellow!” Captain Ross said to Mister Greenway. “Most disagreeable indeed.”

“That he is,” Nate Greenway replied. “But I dare say, I should rather have him aboard than her.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know the lore of the sea as well as I,” Greenway said. “Bring a woman to sea, and trouble is certain to follow.”

“Why, Nate!” the captain exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “I would expect as much from the superstitious fools who scrub the deck and wash the pots. But not from the likes of you!”

“I pray to God you are right and I am wrong, sir. But I fear otherwise.”

In actual fact, it irritated Jasper Hathaway no end to have to step around buckets of scrubbing water and to dodge scuffling seamen on his morning walks. The peace of the quarter deck, where he could gaze out over the ship’s wake, would indeed be more to his taste. But months at sea were boring indeed, and he found no diversion quite as amusing as his ability to tease the men with Grace. He saw their hungry looks as she flowed past them in one of her fetching new silk gowns. Let them watch him grip her arm, then they could draw their own conclusions. They need not know her vicious refusal to allow him to so much as stroke her face.

This particular morning stroll, however, was to be Jasper Hathaway’s last.

The following morning, Grace awoke with the promise of dawn, and, as always, she readied herself for another day. But unlike every other morning, Mister Hathaway did not unlock her door.

When the sun grew hot, Grace knocked on the wall and called out, “Mister Hathaway? Are you ready for your breakfast?”

But he did not respond.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, desperation overtook Grace and she pounded on her cabin door. “Please, someone unlock this door! Something must be wrong with Mister Hathaway!”

Grace heard voices outside, followed by arguments in which more and more people seemed to involve themselves. As her calls became more urgent, someone yelled for the captain. Then more noises that Grace couldn’t identify, although she was certain they came from Mister Hathaway’s room. At long last the bolt slipped into place, and Captain Ross flung the door open.

“Your… employer,” the captain said. “He has taken quite ill. Sometime during the night, I should think. Doctor Wills is with him now.”

“Scurvy.” That was the diagnosis the ship’s surgeon gave Mister Hathaway. “Plague of the sea. I shall see that you have pickled cabbage with each of your meals. And strong rob to drink, too, along with a portion of vinegar.”

“Phoo!” Hathaway spat with disgust. “I shall have none of those barbaric concoctions.”

“Please, sir, do not make so hasty a decision,” Doctor Wills insisted. “This is the only cure for scurvy. And the consequences for leaving the disease untreated are dire indeed.”

“Nonsense,” insisted Mister Hathaway. “I am not your usual unlearned man. I shall simply eat plenty of fresh fruits and all will be set to right. In fact, I shall have a plate of fruit right now.”

“We have no fresh fruit on board,” the doctor explained. “It is quite impossible to carry such things on a ship, but we can—”

“What you can do is leave me in the care of my slave! She shall see to me just fine.”

“Sir,” Captain Ross interjected. “Both Doctor Wills and myself have attended many a man afflicted by this vile disorder. Please, I beg of you, cooperate with the doctor’s treatment, and I am certain that—”

“Good day, Captain!” Mister Hathaway clipped.

“But, sir—” said Doctor Wills.

“Good day to you both!” With that, Jasper Hathaway rolled over and turned his face to the wall.

After Captain Ross and the doctor left, Grace stood for some time staring uncertainly at the bulging back of her tormentor. Finally she asked, “Can I do something for you?”

“Get me a plate of fruit,” he snapped.

“But there is no—”

Grace didn’t even bother to finish her sentence. She quietly left the cabin, closing the door behind her. Doctor Wills and Captain Ross waited just outside the door.

“One time only,” Dr. Wills said. He handed Grace a small, shriveled apple. “But this alone will do him little good. Unless he takes advantage of the remedies we have suggested, Mister Hathaway’s prospects of reaching England alive are extremely small indeed.”

Grace took the apple and said nothing.

“Care for your master if you feel you must,” Captain Ross said. “Or if you can see your way clear, leave his care to the doctor here. Either way, should the man pass from this life, you can consider yourself free.”

“I shall care for him as best I can, sir, for that is my duty,” Grace said. “But he is not my master. And I am not a slave.”

“Let me know if I can be of service to you,” the doctor said.

Grace was granted access to the galley cooking fire. For even as the attackers had made ready to march her from her village, Mama Muco had grabbed Grace and thrust a small packet of herbs into her bound hands. “The Creator will guard you, child, and the ancestors’ medicines will keep you well,” Mama had promised.

Alone in her cabin, Grace untied the cloth and spread out the assortment of roots and leaves and tree bark. She selected the drooping pear-shaped leaves of the pawpaw tree and a stem of bitter neem leaves. Doctor Wills led her into the stuffy galley and instructed the cook to let her use an iron pot. Grace poured in a pitcher full of water and hung the pot on the hook in the fireplace. As the water heated, she dropped in the dried leaves, and let it all come to a slow boil.

“Smells good,” said Doctor Wills. “Might I take a taste?”

One taste was more than enough. Grace laughed out loud as the doctor wrinkled his face and choked at the bitterness of her concoction.

“Mix it with a bit of rob,” Doctor Wills suggested. In answer to Grace’s puzzled look he said, “It is nothing but concentrated fruit juice. We mix it by an old Arab recipe. Excellent treatment for scurvy.”

Jasper Hathaway sipped a bit of the herb-laced rob, but he complained bitterly. “Bring me more apples!” he demanded. “And lemons and papayas!”

But there were no apples or lemons or papayas on the ship. What there was—soup made of dried vegetable tablets, pickled cabbage, and draughts of vinegar—Mister Hathaway flatly refused. So he simply lay in his bed, his body and bones deteriorating by the day.

As Jasper Hathaway’s mind clouded over and drifted in and out, he alternately blubbered his love for Grace and called down damnation on her soul. Grace bathed his pale, fleshy face with cool water as she whispered soothing words, and three times each day she did her best to coax him to nibble at the healing foods. But he scorned her attempts, pulled his nightcap down over his ears, and turned his face to the wall.

Grace closed the door on Jasper Hathaway’s room and moved next door to her own cabin. Since the only lock was on the outside, Grace pushed the table in front of the door and stacked the chair on top of it, then she fell onto her bunk and wept for all that was lost to her: Baby Kwate, the sun of her life. Mama Muco, her loving guide. Cabeto, her heart!

Where is Cabeto now?
her heart cried.
What is the path that can take me back to him? And how am I ever to find my way to it?

One night, Grace was awakened from a restless sleep by the ominous sound of the table scraping across the floor. Someone was pushing her door open! Grace leapt from her bed and threw herself against the table, slamming the door closed. She spent the rest of the night on the floor, the weight of her body pressed against the table that pushed the door closed.

The following morning, as Grace stepped toward Jasper Hathaway’s cabin, Sam Cooke, a tall seaman with a craggy face and an exceptionally shaggy beard, loitered outside, smirking. Chester Mundy, his shady-eyed cohort in mischief, hunkered nearby, sporting a foolish grin.

“Mornin’, miss,” said Sam, doffing his cap to Grace and bowing low.

Grace gave a cursory nod and hurried her steps. But already Chester had stood up and skulked forward, taking up a position between her and Mister Hathaway’s cabin door.

“Look ye to the sky tonight and ye’ll see that the moon be nine days old,” Sam intoned. His smirk dissolved into the deep crevices of his face. He moved in close to Grace and pronounced wickedly, “That man wot be yer master… ’e will die this very night.”

Fear pounded Grace’s chest. Frantically she searched for a way of escape. Certainly not to her left. Chester stood over there, his arms folded, staring at her with fight flashing in his eyes. But maybe to her right…

“If’n ye be thinkin’ of runnin’ over where you be lookin’, missy, then ye best ready yersef to run right into Jake’s arms,” Sam said. “Because ’e be waitin’ fer ye jist around the corner.”

Sam’s hand shot out and grabbed Grace by the wrist. She struggled against his iron grip, but Sam just laughed. “Yer master be right, ye knows,” he said in a voice etched with an ugly tone. “Ye do be nothin’ but a slave. An’ on a ship, a slave girl be open market fer us.”

Evidently this idea struck Chester as funny, because he burst out in peals of laughter. “Maybe ye will find yerself a wife at last, Sam!” he chortled. “Maybe ye—”

“Stop it!”

At the sound of Captain Ross’s voice, Sam’s arms fell limp at his sides and the leering mirth faded from the crannies of his face. Grace, shaking with fear and rage, pulled back to the door of her room and set about adjusting her clothes.

“Capt’n, sir!” Sam stammered. “We be ’elping the lady ’ere to the… we be givin’ ’er a ’and, sir, and—”

“Yes, I saw the helpful assistance you offered Miss Winslow,” Captain Ross said with disgust.

One seaman after another left his work station and eased over to watch the action. The captain motioned to First Mate Brandt and declared, “Six lashes for Seaman Sam Cooke,
Mister Brandt. Four lashes for Chester Mundy and Jake Martin for assisting Seaman Cooke in his plan to attack a passenger.”

“Capt’n, no!” Sam argued. “We was jist ’avin’ us some fun is all!”

Captain Ross ignored him. “As for the rest of you layabouts, half rations for two days.”

“What did we do?” demanded a stout, crusty sailor named Billy. “It ain’t fair, you goin’ after the likes o’ us fer nothin’!”

“I did not rise to the rank of captain by acting the fool,” said Captain Ross. “I have made it my business to keep my eyes on all of you. Every one of you knew what Sam Cooke had in mind, and every one of you played a part in his despicable game. I will not have my crew behaving in such a perverse way toward a passenger entrusted to my care on this ship.”

“But on a slave ship—” someone called out.

“This is
not
a slave ship!” Captain Ross shot back. “This is a merchant ship that has on board two paying passengers. Have I not said as much repeatedly? My duty is to see both of them safely to the shores of England. And, to the degree that it is in my power, I fully intend to do exactly that.”