The Voyage of Promise (14 page)

J
oseph Winslow wiped sweaty palms down the sides of his new coat and stepped awkwardly into the lavishly appointed entry hall of Larkspur Estate. Whistling in awe, he dropped a farthing into Rustin’s outstretched hand.

“Your hat, sir,” the butler said with disdain.

Joseph laughed and exchanged his hat for the farthing.

“ ’Ad me own London ’ouse once upon a time,” Joseph said to Sir Geoffrey Philips, in whose luxurious carriage he had arrived at Larkspur. “It were me lovely pride an’ joy. But it be gone now, all gone. Burned to a crisp, is wot.”

“How dreadful,” Sir Geoffrey replied. “I must remind you once again, kind sir, that Lord Reginald considers Larkspur Estate far more than simply a ‘London house.’ This land and home have been in the Witherham family for more than two hundred years.”

“Is you saying, then, that ’e be a proud man?” asked Joseph Winslow.

Sir Geoffrey did not indulge his temptation to smile. He was far too much a gentleman to cause embarrassment to
another—even to such a one as this. Instead, he motioned for Winslow to follow Rustin to the parlor.

“ ’Oooo-eeeeee,” Joseph gasped when he saw the intricate details of the richly appointed room. Mahogany furniture, constructed and carved by Europe’s leading craftsmen… Walls covered in cut velvet… A lavishly hand-painted ceiling that included a sky of Prussian blue and trees of deep green, colors Joseph Winslow had sadly passed on for his own house because of their exorbitant cost. Joseph went directly to the inset bookshelves and ran his hand across the rows of leather-bound volumes, many embossed with gold leaf lettering.

“I fancies books me’self, I do,” he said. “Collected a ’ole library full fer me an’ me daughter to read.” He made a great show of looking at the titles and pondering over each one.

“Mister Winslow, I presume?” Lord Reginald said as he strutted into the parlor.

Joseph spun around.

“That I be… yes, sir… m’lord… I be Joseph Winslow,” he stammered. “Jist admirin’ yer books, is all.”

“You also enjoy the great pastime of reading, then?” responded Lord Reginald. “Tell me your favorite title, sir, and I shall be most pleased to make you a gift of it to mark the day of our meeting.”

“Well, I… that is, I…” Joseph squinted at the muddle of letters and wished for all the world that he really could read.

“Another time, perhaps,” Lord Reginald said. “Come, do sit.” He motioned Joseph toward the Queen Anne chair.

While the maid set up tea and served it to the men, Lord Reginald and Sir Geoffrey talked casually of city events, none of which interested Joseph Winslow in the least. As a matter of fact, the talk irritated him. Seated on the best of European furniture in a stately aristocratic mansion, dressed head to foot in a new set of clothes he didn’t have to pay for… How
dare these men stir up his curiosity then speak drivel while his eagerness to know the reason for their interest fermented inside him?

From the time Sir Geoffrey Philips and Augustus Jamison had wound their way through the crowded floor to save Joseph Winslow from his humiliation at the cockfight, Sir Geoffrey had shown Joseph nothing but kindness and generosity. Besides paying his debt that night, he had bought him coffee and had even given him an extra five quid for his trouble. And all Sir Geoffrey had asked in return was that Joseph Winslow accompany him to this mansion to meet with Lord Reginald Witherham, heir to one of England’s greatest family fortunes.

Ride out to the West End in a fine carriage? Well, why not?

And so, Sir Geoffrey had arrived at the appointed hour and the appointed place. Although Joseph Winslow took care to clean himself as well as a bucket of cold water would allow, Sir Geoffrey had insisted on a trip to the barbershop, then to the tailor, then to the haberdasher. The result was an entirely different Joseph Winslow.

“In Africa they called me ‘Admiral,’ ” Joseph blurted, despite the fact that it had absolutely nothing to do with the course of the conversation.

Both Lord Reginald and Sir Geoffrey smiled, but neither replied.

As Joseph helped himself to another tea cake, Lord Reginald said, “Sir Geoffrey tells me that you were personally involved in the slave trade, Mister Winslow.”

“That I was, m’lord. ’Ad me very own slave fortress, I did. Biggest one on the Slave Coast, an’ that ain’t no brag, neither. ’Ad the most powerful king workin’ fer me too. ’Is slattees gots the slaves fer me an’ I sold ’em to blokes th’ like of you.”

“Yes, I see,” Lord Reginald answered, although he did not look as though he saw at all. “What caused you to leave so prestigious a position?”

Joseph’s face darkened. “Big slave rebellion, is wot,” he mumbled. Then, his voice rising with passion and a blush mottling his cheeks, he insisted, “Right there’s the problem! Ye cain’t trust any of ’em. Nary a one! Not the slaves and not the African kings. And most certainly not a ’igh and mighty African princess.”

Carefully, precisely, Lord Witherham picked up his teacup and took a long sip. Sir Philips did the same.

“Traitors, ever’ last one of ’em!” Joseph muttered as he reached for another tea cake. Then he picked up his own cup.

“England is not what it once was,” Lord Reginald Witherham said. “Refugees from the war in America have come over here. Now that war is being waged in France, more French are pouring across the channel as well. Many Irish and many Scots, all making our country theirs. Lascars from India, and Africans too—mostly living as free men—come to our fair country and work at jobs once reserved for England’s own poor. No, my dear sirs, things are no longer what they once were.”

Joseph looked at his host and did his best to blink back his confusion. What did he care of foreigners in England? Hadn’t he had his fill of them in Africa?

“The problem, Mister Winslow—as I am certain a man as well-traveled as yourself understands—is that when outsiders come, they bring their destructive ideas along with them,” said Lord Reginald.

Yes, destructive ideas. That Joseph understood only too well.

“Ideas about mob rule and the obliteration of the aristocracy. Ideas about dismantling the structure of the African
slave trade and thereby no longer allowing us the wherewithal to supply workers for our vast holdings in the New World. Which would mean the destruction of the very financial foundation of London, I must say, if not of our entire country.”

“ ’Em dirty beggars!” Joseph hissed.

“Sir Geoffrey and I, along with several other well-placed gentlemen, are determined that we shall not allow this to happen to our country. Can we count on your support and assistance…
Admiral
Winslow?”

Joseph puffed out his chest. “That ye kin, m’lord!” he said. “That ye most assuredly kin!”

U
p with you! Up! Up!”

Grace opened her eyes to blackness, and for the life of her, she could not figure out where she was. Who was the shadowy figure shaking her?

“Up with you! The linens already be gathered in, and the cauldron be boilin’ on the fire!”

Grace struggled to sit up. “Mrs. Peete? Is it morning?”

“Close enough fer the likes of us,” Mrs. Peete said. “Come daylight, the first baskets of wash will be ready fer the line. Git up now, I needs your ’elp.”

Fine linens trimmed in handmade lace, muslins decorated with delicate crocheted edgings, frilled shirts bedecked with ruffles, pleated bodices adorned with fine stitching—Mrs. Peete called such things the “small linen.” Following Mrs. Peete’s instructions, Grace set an empty bucket on the hearth, and, using the ladle that hung on the hook overhead, dipped water into it from the bubbling cauldron. When the bucket was full, she toted it to the large copper washtub assigned her, then she went back for another bucketful. She kept this up until the washtub was filled. Then she got busy washing all the
small linens by hand. She washed out the general dirt, then she went to work on any spots with hard soap until each piece of clothing was clean—and her hands were rubbed raw.

“Wot ’appened to you?” Mrs. Peete asked, pointing to Grace’s first finger on her left hand, where the first joint of her finger should have been.

Grace never even considered offering up the story of the slave rebellion and the mangled ransom attempt. Instead she buried her hands in the cloudy water and mumbled, “Accident at home. It was a long time ago.”

Mrs. Peete shrugged and said, “Jist so’s it don’t slow you down.” Then she turned back to her own work.

When Grace paused to straighten her aching back, Mrs. Peete said, “If you wants to stand straight fer a bit, take the basket out to the garden and throw them clothes over the dryin’ line.”

Outside, Grace placed the small linens over the line, piece by piece. Her dress, now soaking wet, flapped around her in the brisk wind and set her to shivering. The wind might dry the clothes, but to someone wet to the skin with wash water, it was pure misery.

By the time Grace got back in the house, Mrs. Peete had already cleaned up the washtub. “Don’t use so much soap,” she scolded. “I ’as to pay out me money for that, you know. Costs me two pence fer ever’ pound. And don’t slosh so much water around on the floor. Liked to break me back cleanin’ up after you!”

Just as Grace was congratulating herself on getting her work done so quickly and so well, Mrs. Peete set out a fresh tub. “Fer the large things,” she said. “Sheets and tablecloths and such.” She threw down an enormous pile. “Fill the tub and start washin’ these. I’ll git more water from the pump up
the street so I kin set the dirtiest things to boilin’ over the fire.”

At noon, Mrs. Peete moved the wet clothes off the table. Then she bustled about the cupboard and laid out a lunch of bread with a small dab of butter and two slices of cheese for each of them. She poured them each a cup of weak tea to wash down the bread and cheese.

“When will we be done with the washing?” Grace asked. She was so exhausted, she was close to tears.

“Not until them dirty piles be clean, dearie,” Mrs. Peete said. “Maybe tonight we’ll stop early and walk to a takeaway fer a meat pie.”

But by the time Mrs. Peete was ready to go for the meat pie, all Grace wanted to do was get out of her wet clothes, drop down on her cot, and sleep. She was totally and thoroughly exhausted. The skin was worn off her fingers, her hands and arms were scalded and chapped, and her back felt as though it would break in two from bending over the washtub all day long.

“Do you do this every day?” Grace asked.

“Ever’ day of me life,” Mrs. Peete said. “And I be glad fer the work too. Pays me eight pence a day, it does. Wi’ your ’elp, maybe a shilling a day. I ’as me a roof over me head and three pence to pay fer bread and cheese, and a bit of meat on Sundays. That be more than most folks on this lane kin say.”

After a week of working alongside Mrs. Peete, Grace was able to move through the pile of laundry much more efficiently and with a bit less agony. Already Mrs. Peete had placed her in complete charge of the small linens. Each day, after Grace spent the morning rubbing the linens clean in the washtub, she went to the garden to hang them out to dry. The fresh air was a happy relief from the closed-in staleness of the house. Once Grace suggested opening a window, but Mrs. Peete
exclaimed, “And catch the consumption and die? Air be the worst thing fer a body!”

From the washing line, Grace could watch the people of London as they walked up and down the lane. Men, women, children of all ages. Where were they all going in such a hurry? Were they working? Not a one looked to be out for a pleasant afternoon stroll.

A delightful idea popped into Grace’s mind. What if she were to run out into the lane and stop each person and ask directions to the docks? Better yet, what if she were to offer a shilling to anyone who would take her there? Best idea of all: What if she offered her entire silk purse of shillings to anyone who could get her on a ship to the United States in America? To Charleston?

But she never did any of those things. Every day, after she finished hanging all the small linens on the line, she came back into the house to face a fresh tub of water and a great dirty pile of large things.

“You is a good worker, girl,” Mrs. Peete said one day as she laid out the usual lunch of bread, cheese, and tea. “I’s pleased to have you in me ’ouse.”

“I want to leave,” Grace said.

“What do you mean, you wants to leave?” Mrs. Peete demanded. “After I’s so kindly shared me ’ome with you, that’s what you tells me? After I’s give you me own food to eat?”

“Please, Mrs. Peete, I have to get back to the dock and the sailing ships!” Grace said. Then she poured out the whole story—of the slavers who came to her village with guns flaming, of her baby Kwate, of Mister Hathaway, of Cabeto, who was even now on a slave ship.

“I must get to the place where they sell the slaves,” Grace said. “I must find Cabeto before it is too late.”

“If’n you gits to them colonies, girl, they will make a slave of
you
, is wot!” Mrs. Peete said.

“Then I will be a slave with my husband.”

“You be a fool,” said Mrs. Peete. “A fool is what you be, and I won’t have no part of it.”

“If I could just get back to the docks—”

“A stupid fool, that’s what you be!”

For nine days, Grace had been at Mrs. Peete’s house. On the tenth day, Grace arose before dawn, just as she did every day. The cauldron was already boiling over the fire, and the small linens were piled up and waiting for her. Grace spent the morning bent over the washtub and went to the garden to hang the clothes over the line and watch the people in the lane. It was her favorite part of the day.

Grace had just hung the last shirt over the line when she saw the girl walk by. A girl like her, with brown skin (though lighter than Grace’s) and auburn hair. The girl was not actually African, but she was not English, either. She had one foot in each of two worlds, just like Grace!

With a gasp, Grace dropped her basket and ran through the garden gate. She lifted her skirt above her ankles and took off down the lane after the girl. At the end of the lane the girl turned onto the broad street, so Grace turned as well. The girl walked quite a way along the street, and then she turned again. Grace followed her just in time to see her disappear into a coffeehouse. Grace hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she opened the door and also slipped in.

Never had Grace seen such a place as that coffeehouse. The large room was lined with long tables where men sat bunched together in groups drinking coffee and smoking long clay pipes. The room hummed with the rhythm of excited discussion. One man stood up from a group and, after a fair bit of harrumphing, made a loud and ponderous proclamation.
Something about a politician and a speech that politician had recently made. All the others in the room quieted their talk to listen to the man, but when he finished and sat back down, everyone started up again with their own chatter.

Many of the men had hair that looked as though it had been dipped in white milled flour. It curled over their ears, each in the same way, and in the back it hung down in a tail tied with a ribbon. It was the style of rich Englishmen, not the common men Grace saw walking in the lane. Some men in the coffeehouse kept their hair covered with hats. All dressed in knee breeches, fancy shirts, and silky-looking jackets, and all had their legs covered with stockings and wore shoes with silver buckles.

At the far end of one table, an African man sat alone. Yes, certainly he was an African, and yet he dressed just like an Englishman—the same knee breeches and white stockings, the same ruffled shirt and fancy coat. No white hair, though.

Grace could not help but stare at the African man. Imagine if it were Cabeto sitting there in white man’s clothes!

The coffeehouse chatter began to die down as one white head after another turned to stare at the bronze girl standing in their midst wearing a soaking wet dress.

Before Grace had a chance to wonder what she should do, the girl she had been following grabbed her from behind and pulled her rather roughly to one side. With all eyes on the two of them, the girl headed for a side door. Grace was right behind her.

Once outside, the girl turned fiery green eyes on Grace and demanded, “Who are you? And why are you following me?”