The Voyage of Promise (12 page)

H
ave you read this?” Lord Reginald Witherham stormed, his eyes darting accusingly from man to man. “Has any one of you taken occasion to read a word of this blasphemous writing?”

“Please, my dear Lord Reginald, do calm yourself,” urged the unflappable Sir Geoffrey Philips. “It is merely words on a page and nothing more. It is but the meandering thoughts of one single man.”

“No, Sir Geoffrey,
merely that
it most certainly is not!” Lord Reginald insisted. He was fairly shaking in his effort to contain his anger. “
Thoughts Upon a Slave Trade
is a book! A published book that people are actually r
eading
! Even
women
are reading it! Dear sirs, prepare yourselves for a shock when I tell you that this disgraceful work has even found its way into my own house!”

The identical thought ran through the minds of all four men seated in the luxuriously appointed sitting room at Larkspur Estate:
In that case, Lord Reginald Witherham, would you not do well to take control of your own house?
Although all four men were thinking as much, none spoke his thoughts.
Still, eyebrows were lifted knowingly and glances surreptitiously exchanged.

“The rabble-rousers will be with us always,” Simon Johnson allowed. “It is an irritation we have no choice but to endure.”

“An irritation, you say? My dear Mister Johnson, how can you fail to grasp the singular importance of this disastrous volume?” Lord Reginald exclaimed in exasperation. “It was penned by one Reverend John Newton, who was himself once a slaver but who now claims to have seen the light and repented of his ways. His condemnation of the African slave trade, and his criticism of those who practice it, are dastardly indeed. Most damaging of all, he writes not only eloquently, but also with the poisonous power of personal experience.”

“But, my most honored Lord Reginald, pray tell, why must you call all of us out once again when we should be sitting by the warmth of our own hearths? Why do you work yourself into a state that could well damage your own health?” questioned Quentin Gainesville. “That account was published a full five years ago.”

“That is true,” agreed Sir Geoffrey. “And for years before that, the Reverend Newton told his tales from his pulpit, as well as from many other public places. Quentin is quite right, Lord Reginald. This is nothing new.”

Glaring past Sir Philips at the woolly-wigged Mister Gainesville, Lord Reginald clenched his jaw and the veins on his forehead throbbed, sure signs that his agitation was getting the best of him. Yet he managed to state with a measure of control, “What is new, my dear sirs, is that the common people have actually begun to pay attention.”

Charlotte had known this day would come. She had known it ever since her husband discovered the booklet she hastily hid under the cushion of the Queen Anne chair. Her only
regret was that she had not had the chance to read it herself. And, of course, now it was too late. Reginald had the volume locked away in his study—except when he pulled it out for exhibitions such as this night, when he wished to wave it around to demonstrate his indignation.

With well-honed silence—now that she had mastered the art of walking like a refined Witherham instead of clomping like a horse—Lady Charlotte eased out of her chambers and glided to the upstairs landing that happened to be conveniently located just above the sitting room. Fortunately, as her husband’s irritation grew, so did the pitch of his voice. Charlotte might not hear everything the other men said, but she was not likely to miss one word that came from her husband’s angry lips.

“Independence of the American colonies,” he was saying. “It was right there that the breach crumbled into an open chasm. And the French, fools that they are, surrendered to the demand of the masses to grab up undue responsibility for themselves rather than to cleave to the God-given right of the monarchy to rule with unquestioned authority. From there it moves to this published declaration that has the gall to equate savages with… with… with
us
!”

Lord Reginald—quite out of breath—paused, panting, to mop the perspiration from his brow.

Quentin Gainesville took the opportunity to interject, “I pray thee, my good man, pause long enough to understand that we all agree with your concern over the present state of affairs. It truly is quite wretched. But really, we cannot be compared with America or France. We do have a Parliament in this country, and—”

“And what, pray tell?” Lord Reginald roared. “It is not in Parliament that the minds of the common people are molded and formed. It is in the public squares and the coffeehouses.
And it is in those very places that the abolitionists abound and flourish. I have private information that one coffeehouse in particular is known to house a group that is right at this very moment plotting to overthrow our nation’s laws on the slave trade. Yes, our singularly fair and humane statutes, and then to force our country into an economic crisis beyond anything we have hitherto known or imagined possible!”

This time, Lord Reginald paused not only to mop his brow, but also to gasp for breath and await the shocked exclamations of his colleagues.

Augustus Jamison stared blank-faced at the flushed and panting Lord Reginald Witherham. “Indeed!” he said evenly. “I never took you for a man who frequented such haunts, my lord. Might I ask how it is that you have such personal knowledge of coffeehouses?”

Sir Geoffrey looked on with an absolutely straight face, but his eyes twinkled with uncontrollable merriment. Simon Johnson busied himself with his harrumphing, but he made his opinion clearly known by arching his bushy eyebrows and perfectly timing his sanctimonious coughs.

As for Quentin Gainesville, he simply let forth with a bark of a laugh and exclaimed, “Come now, Lord Reginald, you are amongst friends, old man. What was it that black Irish wench of yours told you?”

Lord Reginald blushed as crimson as if his face had been freshly roasted.

Ena, that was her name. The old Irish word for “fire.” And a lovely little bonfire she was too. Toasted brown skin kissed with a glowing blaze, and crimson flaming through her bright auburn hair. It was that sizzling glow that had first snatched away Lord Reginald’s aristocratic breath. That was what had enticed him to make her such a lucrative offer to come to Larkspur Estate to work on a day-by-day basis as
a chambermaid—so good an offer that she simply could not turn it down.

Lord Reginald envisioned that ball of Irish fire to be as transfixed with him as he was with her, but whenever he positioned himself before her, and regardless of what enticements he laid in her path, she ignored him. She simply applied herself to her work as a chambermaid—albeit a most enchanting one. It drove Lord Reginald to the edge of distraction. Lady Charlotte chattered and giggled and demanded and pouted, but Ena’s dark green eyes burned with passion—though not for him.

“One must foster channels of information wherever they are to be found,” Lord Reginald insisted most unconvincingly. Even as he said it, he knew how ridiculously defensive he sounded.

The others gazed at Lord Reginald with impassive faces, but he knew perfectly well that in their hearts they were laughing at him. This knowledge filled him with humiliation, which in turn fueled his fury to red hot. His face and ears burned.

“The better thing would be if we all fostered channels of information which we could then share together…”

Well, he’d had to try.

A conquest, perhaps. That might be an explanation for Lord Reginald’s attraction to the beautiful black Irish servant girl. If that were so, however, he was definitely losing the battle. Lord Reginald had determined that he needed to be more aggressive, to use his wealth and superior station in life to bolster his chances for success with Ena—even to badger her, if need be. But the result of that ploy proved disastrous. She had fled the house, vowing never to return. Still, Ena was a good cleaning maid. So, in spite of all, Lady Charlotte continued to call on her—generally when her husband was out of town and the boredom of her life got to her. Chastened by his wife—or
perhaps mocked by her—Lord Reginald had followed Ena to the coffeehouse where she had found herself a position keeping fresh coffee available for customers and cleaning up after they left.

Despite Lord Reginald’s wishful insistence otherwise, his quest of the Irish servant girl was no secret. Nonplused at the distressing turn the discussion had taken, he thrust upward the booklet in his hand and announced, “Reverend Newton concludes his treatise thusly:

Though unwilling to give offense to a single person: in such a case, I ought not to be afraid of offending many, by declaring the truth. If, indeed, there can be many, whom even interest can prevail upon to contradict the common sense of mankind, by pleading for a commerce, so iniquitous, so cruel, so oppressive, so destructive, as the African Slave Trade!”

In one final, dramatic action, he threw the booklet across the floor. Then, satisfied that he had made his case, he leaned back against the mantle.

For several minutes the men sat in thoughtful silence. Then Sir Geoffrey Philips said, “You say the people of London are giving their attention to this, Lord Reginald?”

“London, most certainly. But not London alone. Indeed, throughout all of England, and Scotland too,” Lord Reginald replied. “And not only the commoners, but members of Parliament as well. This self-same Reverend John Newton is due to testify before a select committee of the House of Commons. Should that happen, it could well be the ruin of every one of us!”

“Come, now, Lord Reginald,” Simon Johnson said with just the trace of a disdainful sniff. “I must say that your performance is worthy of the most extreme Dissenting preacher. One does not expect such shows of emotion from men of our station. I for one must insist that I cannot believe this matter to be nearly as serious as you make it out.”

“Yes, yes, my good man,” Augustus Jamison agreed. “The members of the House of Lords must surely share our sensibilities.”

“But I am speaking of the common people. And if they should—” Lord Reginald began.

Quentin Gainesville waved him aside. “This is not the insufferable American colonies, and this is not France,” he said. “This, sir, is England. And in England, in the event that you have forgotten as much, it is King George who rules, not the common people. That black wench of yours can say whatever she will, but I shall tell you the true concerns of the people of England: the price of the bread that fills their bellies and the cost of a shovelful of coal to drive out the dampness and cold. The common people’s worries over their next tankard of ale are far greater than their concern over a shipload of black heathens who, I might add, are more surely better off on that fair English ship than they ever were running wild through the jungles of Africa.”

Even as he was finishing his last sentence, Mister Johnson stood up and busied himself setting his coat to right. “Whilst I respect your concerns—and I truly do respect them, my lord—I must express my well-founded fear that they are somewhat misplaced. And now, I fear, I truly must take my leave.”

“But I had hoped we might come to some points of action this evening,” Lord Reginald protested.

“Ah, yes,” Simon Johnson said as the others, making haste to follow his lead, also prepared to leave. “I do have a suggestion for the first point of action.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” said Lord Reginald. Perhaps, he hoped with all his heart, it was not too late to redeem the evening, after all.

“I would suggest that the first point might be that you keep your distance from that coffeehouse!”

Lady Charlotte hurried back to her chambers, closed the door behind her, buried her head in her feather pillow, and dissolved into peals of laughter.

L
ondon… it is on fire again!” Grace gasped as the
Willow
sailed down the Thames River, giving her the first sight of the city’s hazy skyline.

“On fire?” Jonas Brandt said. “It most certainly is not!”

“But all the smoke.”

“Oh, that.” Mister Brandt shook his head and laughed. “It is naught but the usual pall that envelops the city. So many coal fires, you see. In every house and every trade shop. London is always thick with smoke. On some days, even in the middle of the day, a person cannot see the words on a newspaper though he holds it in front of his face.”

Nothing in all her books could have prepared Grace for the sight of London. Such a vista of towering buildings. So many of them spiked with soaring spires. So many crowned by lofty steeples. All of them swallowed up in smoke billowing from a plethora of high, round chimneys.

Grace gazed out at the blanket of thick haze. “Does the sun ever shine through?” she asked.

“Now and again,” Mister Brandt said. “We call those the
glorious days
.”

The wide Thames, which flowed into and through London’s waterfront district, was clogged with ships both great and small. Lesser vessels, such as fishing boats, could sail under the round arches of London Bridge and directly up to the docks, but the arches were not high enough to allow such tall-masted sailing ships as the
Willow
to pass through.

“Soon you will leave the ship,” Mister Brandt told Grace. “A small passenger boat will take you and your baggage crate up to the dock.”

“What about Mister Hathaway?” Grace asked.

Jonas Brandt shook his head. “That is not for me to say. You must ask Captain Ross that question. He desires to speak with you before you leave.”

Although Clayton Ross’s injury was still far from healed, he no longer burned with fever, and the wounds on his leg were somewhat less fiery and swollen.

“I am sorry, Miss Grace,” Captain Ross said as she stood beside his cot. “It was my full intention to see you safely to the city. I feel as though I have failed you.”

“Oh, no, sir!” Grace protested. “Thank you for all you have done for me. It is more than I ever could have hoped.”

“His life and retribution for how he had lived it are in the hands of God,” the captain said. “You no longer need to concern yourself with him. Whether he lives or dies, you are henceforth a free woman.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grace said, although she could barely choke back her terror of facing this strange, shrouded city alone. “You have been most kind, Captain Ross. I placed your holy book back on the shelf in your cabin. Thank you for allowing me to read it.”

Captain Ross closed his eyes, and for a moment he did not speak. Then, looking up at Grace again, he said, “The ship cannot pass under the bridge, so I have asked Mister Greenway
to see you safely onto a passenger boat. He will accompany you to the dock. Passage beneath the bridge is perilous, so ask God’s protection as you near it.

“I also have provided Mister Greenway with a letter sealed with my personal seal, addressed to Mrs. Nellie Peete, a widow who lives on Bright Lane. She is a kindly woman and will provide you with a room until you are able to make other arrangements. The letter will introduce you and give her my recommendation of you. Mister Greenway will hire a coach to take you and your baggage to Mrs. Peete’s house, and he will give you the letter. When you arrive there, give the letter to Mrs. Peete for her to unseal. She knows how to read. Inside are two shillings to pay her for your room.”

Tears filled Grace’s eyes. “Sir, you have been so kind to me. I will never be able to thank you as I ought. I have no right to ask more. But, please, sir, I must beg you one more time… Captain Ross, when you are well again, please take me to the United States of America. Please, sir, take me to Charleston!”

Captain Ross’s face hardened. “I will not!” he said. “You do me an injustice to ask me again, Miss Grace. No, I will not!”

“Sir, I—”

“You must never go to that place, not with me or with anyone else. You must never even express a desire to do so.”

“But I—”

“You have the chance to make a life for yourself in London. Do not destroy it with foolish stubbornness,” Captain Ross said in a voice that left no room for more argument or tears. But when he saw the stricken look on Grace’s face, he added more gently: “You cannot save Cabeto, Miss Grace. Commit him to the hands of God and let him go.”

Grace said nothing more. But already she was snatching up every possible scrap of hope and tucking them all away in her
heart to save for the time when she could weave together a plan. She was in London. That meant Cabeto must be somewhere in the West Indies. She had no time to waste.

“One more thing,” Captain Ross said with an exhausted sigh. He reached under his blanket and pulled out a small satin purse. “Here is a bit of English money to get you started in your new life.”

“Oh, sir, you have already done so much for me,” Grace protested.

“Take care of it,” the captain warned. “London is thick with pickpockets who will be watching for one such as you and looking to grab away your money. You must be wise and alert, and careful at all times.”

Grace took the purse and stuffed it down the front of her dress. Captain Ross smiled, then he closed his eyes and drifted off.

It was with great wonderment that Grace stepped onto the passenger boat, accompanied by Nathaniel Greenway and her lidded crate of English clothes. The river was calm and the waterman adept at weaving his boat through the heavy river traffic. But as they neared the center arch of London Bridge, it seemed as though a wicked spirit suddenly grabbed hold of the boat and whirled it around and around. The waterman struggled with all his might to regain control. Grace grabbed hold of Mister Greenway’s thick arm and bit into her lip.

Passage beneath the bridge is perilous, so ask God for protection.
That’s what the captain had told her. So Grace clamped her eyes shut and prayed with all her might as the boat rocked back and forth and dipped up and down.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the whirlpool released its grip. The waterman heaved a sigh of relief and rowed smoothly along on the city side of the bridge. They passed barges piled high with packages, and they passed round,
leather-covered fishing boats. On every side they saw other watermen in other boats, some carrying passengers every bit as wide-eyed as Grace.

Nate Greenway helped Grace up the muddy steps of the dock, laughing out loud as she choked at the awful smell of the foul water.

“Do people actually drink this?” Grace exclaimed.

Mister Greenway assured her that they most certainly did, and what was more, she would as well unless she preferred to dry up of thirst.

People, people, people—everywhere, people! Grace had no idea so many people existed in the entire world. People walking, people riding in wagons and carriages, people pushing carts, people carrying baskets in their arms and on their heads, people selling pies and fish and vegetables and fruit and concoctions she couldn’t imagine ever putting into her mouth.

“Scat!” Nate Greenway snapped as he slapped at two little boys who scratched along the riverbank.

“What did they want?” Grace asked.

“Just a couple of filthy mudlarks,” Mister Greenway said. “They search the riverbank for anything they can sell. But no one wants them around, for they are only too happy to steal from a person too.”

Grace looked back at the little boys.

“Come, come, Miss Grace,” Nate Greenway called. Even as the stevedore unloaded her crate, Mister Greenway hailed a hackney coach, just as Captain Ross had instructed him to do. “Come along,” he urged Grace. “This way, now.”

Stepping over a dead dog that lay sprawled in the road, Nate Greenway hoisted Grace’s crate up to the top of the carriage and fastened it with straps. He opened the door, pulled down the step and urged her into the mud-splattered
coach and slammed the door shut. Only at the last moment did he remember Captain Ross’s letter to Mrs. Peete. He thrust it to her through the open window. After a short argument with the driver, Mister Greenway shrugged and handed the man a shilling. The ship’s navigator waved a swift farewell to Grace, then turned and loped back down the road.

At the snap of the driver’s whip, the horses lurched and took off at full gallop. The coach clattered down the rough cobblestone road, shaking Grace so hard that her hat slipped off her head. Straight through a deep puddle the coach plunged, splattering muddy water through the open window and giving Grace a good dousing of street mire.

Grace was in London.

And she was all alone.