The Voyage of Promise (19 page)

I
t cannot be so!” Lingongo fumed. “If Jasper Hathaway had died on the ship and never made it to England, it would not be from the mouths of foolish sailors that we heard the news!”

“Foolish sailors who themselves saw him carried away dead and toothless,” King Obei reminded his sister. “Foolish sailors who watched as Grace walked away a free Englishwoman.”

This was not good news for the chiefdom that sought to once again become the most powerful force on the coast of Africa. Everything Lingongo had said about the alliance with Jasper Hathaway was true, yet King Obei took special pleasure in seeing his sister’s plans dashed before her eyes. It pleased him even though it meant his own kingdom would suffer. Had they not suffered before and yet endured? The very presence of the white man caused them no end of suffering.

Jasper Hathaway was dead. Of that, King Obei had no doubt. The ancestors would not allow such a man to live. The power behind the
sika’gua
stool of power was upon King Obei. It was
his
feet that rested on it.

“The ancestors have spoken,” said King Obei.

He spoke nothing of Lingongo’s golden chair that even now mocked him alongside his royal chair—the same size, the same height, even more grand. But already he was laying plans. If the odious Mister Hathaway was no more, that meant Lingongo’s alliance with the white traders also was no more. Soon, in accordance with the will of the ancestors, his golden chair would stand by itself in the royal hut. Soon the splendor of the kings would be his alone.

Lingongo greatly desired to go up to Zulina herself, but that was no longer her right. And without Mister Hathaway, who would be there to receive her? White men from the slave ships—they did not know enough to recognize her as a princess. They looked at her as though she were just another slave to be sold. No, she could not go back to Zulina.

Reverently, Lingongo unwrapped the royal clothing from around her body, and carefully folded it as was its due. In its place, she draped a length of simple cloth around herself. With her head held high, she walked out of the royal enclave and followed the path through the sacred territory where she had spent her childhood and from which she had been ripped by her marriage to Joseph Winslow. Men along the road stopped to stare at the great Princess Lingongo who walked among them as if she were as lowly as they. Women with baskets on their heads gaped at the princess and wondered why she would stoop to wear the same working clothes they wore every day. Out of reverence and respect, each person stopped and bowed as she passed by. But Lingongo looked at none of them. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

Lingongo walked out to the boundary rocks that marked the beginning of the land of her brother’s Gold Coast kingdom. Only there did she pause, and only to pay her respect to the ancestors.

When Benjamin Stevens’s trustee brought him the news that Princess Lingongo was coming down the road toward his compound, Stevens laughed out loud.

“I do not think so, Jonah,” he answered. “Princess Lingongo does not walk along the coast. And she certainly does not come to see me.”

But Jonah was so insistent that Benjamin heaved a sigh of resignation and walked out to see.

Benjamin stared hard at the figure approaching from up the coast. An African woman, to be sure. Tall and fluid in her movements, certainly. He shaded his eyes and squinted. It could be Lingongo. But then again, it could be someone else. He couldn’t tell for sure. The truth was, his eyes were not what they once were. “The African sun burns away blue eyes,” a doctor once warned him. It certainly did seem so.

“Wait on the road below,” Benjamin told Jonah. “Call to me as soon as she arrives.”

If
she arrives
, he thought.

Twenty years Benjamin had lived in Africa. Twenty years in the relentless sun that burned away at his blue eyes and roasted his pale skin into aged leather. Just two years short of the entire life of his only child. Charlotte was barely toddling about the garden behind their small house in London when he left on that first slave voyage. The idea had not been to leave England for good, of course. He thought he would join a few slave crews, pocket great riches, then retire young and wealthy. Oh, the foolishness of youth!

Three unprofitable voyages in three years made it quite clear that was not going to happen. The real money, he had told Henrietta, was in running a slave house on the African coast.

“Come along to Africa and make a home there with me,” he had begged.

But Henrietta would have none of it. It was not a proper place to raise an English girl, she insisted.

Well, perhaps Henrietta was right.

When his wife grew too ill to visit Africa, Benjamin wrote to her suggesting that he give up the slave trade and return to England to be with her. But Henrietta insisted it would be better if he stayed where he was—although he most certainly should give instructions to his British employer to send his pay straight to her. Maybe Henrietta was right in that too. She usually was. Certainly Charlotte no longer needed him. Henrietta had arranged a fine marriage for her. His wife was to be commended for that.

“She asks to see you, sir,” Jonah announced.

“Lingongo?” Benjamin was incredulous. “Is it really her, then? Well, show her in.”

To have the great and powerful Princess Lingongo in his sparse house, sitting on his own chair, to have Lingongo—who struck terror into many a heart with no more than a glare— sipping tea from his own chipped cup… well, it was simply more than Benjamin could fathom. Whatever could she want with him?

Lingongo spoke of her great and powerful father, and of the unforeseen fortunes of war. She spoke of the ancestors who guided her people, and of their representatives who walked on the earth. She spoke of peace, and she spoke of prosperity.

When Lingongo finally paused to sip her tea, Benjamin Steven said, “Why are you here?”

In her own time, Lingongo finished the last of her tea. Then, as no table was close by, she set the cup carefully on the floor. She leaned forward in her chair and adjusted the plain cloth draped around her. “Jasper Hathaway is dead,” Lingongo said.

“That is distressing news,” Benjamin replied. “But I ask you again, why are you here?”

“Mister Stevens, I have come to offer you a business proposition.”

“I have seen you conduct business,” Benjamin answered, “so I shall decline your offer.”

“How can you decline what you have yet to hear?” Lingongo asked in a voice that flowed like honey. “I have seen your face as you watched Joseph Winslow’s handling of the slaves and the slave traders. I have seen your eyes as you looked at the foolishness of his London house. I know you to be a man of moderate tastes, Mister Stevens, not given to excessive drink nor held captive by the roll of the dice.”

Benjamin Stevens was indeed a moral man and a Christian. He could see no earthly reason why some white men found it necessary to add to the essential suffering of Africans. No, not even when such abuse could increase their own financial gain.

“You desire peace on the Gold Coast of Africa,” Lingongo said. “I also desire peace. You want strength and prosperity for your people. I want the same for my people. Wise people work together for a common end—both men and women, both African and English.”

Lingongo’s buttery-smooth voice slipped into Mister Stevens’s ears and into his heart, where it stirred something deep within him. Benjamin knew to be wary of her, yet the words she spoke rang true.

“It was never my choice to cast my lot with Joseph Winslow,” Lingongo said. “That union was forced upon me by my father. Nor did I choose to be involved in a partnership with Mister Hathaway. That was a necessity thrust my way by my brother the king because of agreements our father signed with Mister Hathaway’s English employer. But you, Mister Stevens, you
are a man with a mind akin to my own. I would choose to work alongside one such as you, one wise enough to value friendship between Africans and English.”

Friendship between Africans and English. Yes, Benjamin Stevens did indeed recognize this as a matter of great value. The English, like all Europeans, rarely ventured into the interior of Africa. For one thing, the perilous continent was rife with exotic diseases to which white men quickly and disastrously fell prey. For another, tribes deep in the heart of Africa fiercely opposed the white men and laid treacherous traps for them. Which was why cooperation between white and black was absolutely essential to the slave trade. Lingongo’s warriors could go into the interior and conquer fresh captives, then march them out to the coast where Benjamin Stevens would be waiting to receive them in a civilized, Christian manner.

Benjamin had offered Lingongo that first cup of tea because, being a well-bred gentleman, he could not bring himself to appear rude and inhospitable. But the second cup, he offered her because he desired to do so. And then he offered a third cup after that.

“I have never seen the sense of riding through Africa in an English carriage,” Benjamin said as Lingongo finished her tea, “but I would be most pleased to drive you back to your brother’s kingdom in my wagon.”

Lingongo found this idea most pleasing. Even though she had stayed with Mister Stevens long enough to see the heat of the day wane, she did not relish the long walk home. But the most attractive part of Mister Stevens’s offer was the knowledge that her brother could not help but see that she, Princess Lingongo, had already formed a new alliance. And she had done so without his help.

Y
our father is a white man,” Jesse said flatly. “If you thought he would turn his back on the privileges of who he is simply to help a half-breed, you know nothing of real English life.”

“What of Ethan Preston?” Grace challenged. “And the others in the group upstairs? Look at what they are doing. And they do it for people like me who are nothing to them. For people like you.”

“Talk, talk, talk. That’s what they do,” Jesse interrupted impatiently. “Those people have it in their power to break the back of the slave trade if they only had the courage to stop their talk and move to action.”

Grace blinked back her surprise. “But the men from Parliament are coming soon and—”

“—and those men will join with our group, and together they will continue to talk. Words and words and more words, and still nothing will happen. Let them meet together. It will do nothing to help us.”

“You are a free man because of the English,” Grace insisted. “They
bought
you your freedom.”

“Their crime is not against me. It is against all of us,” Jesse growled bitterly. “The pain is our pain, not theirs. The death and the suffering—those belong to us, too, not to them. The only way for us to fight back is to throw the suffering and death onto their backs. Let them feel the pain. Then they will have something about which they can talk.”

“No!” said Grace. “There has been too much suffering already! And far too much death!”

“You know nothing,” Jesse said.

Grace was tired of it. Tired of everything and everyone. She slowed her stride, and soon Jesse was far ahead of her. She knew where she was—on Waring Street. She could find her way back to Mrs. Peete’s house by herself. What she would do after that, she had no idea.

Grace picked her way through the large things draped over Mrs. Peete’s table and chairs, picked up a candlestick, and lit the stub of a candle at the fireplace.

“Ye looks a sight,” Mrs. Peete said crossly.

Grace nodded but didn’t answer. She knew she should help Mrs. Peete finish up the last of the wash, but she really didn’t want to. She said, “I won’t go out until later tomorrow. Maybe not at all. I can wash all the large things for you after I finish the small linens,” and went to her room.

Grace set the candlestick on the floor next to her crate and lifted off the lid. Carefully she felt though the folds of her yellow dress until her fingers touched the smooth satin of the purse. She pulled it out, loosened the strings, and poured out the shilling coins.

One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen.

Sighing with relief, Grace placed the coins back in the purse, one by one by one. Two were already gone, and soon Mrs. Peete would surely ask her for another. Then three of the
fifteen would be gone. Still, Grace had learned an important thing today; she could walk to the docks if someone would show her the way.

The next day, Grace got up early. The fog still hung heavy and wet when she draped the small linens on the line. By the time the church bells rang out the noon hour, the large things were washed. As soon as Grace finished her lunch of bread and cheese, she set the heavily soiled pieces to boiling.

“You’s workin’ like a real washerwoman,” Mrs. Peete said proudly.

“I
am
a real washerwoman,” Grace said. “Until I go for Cabeto. Then I will be a sailing woman again.”

Mrs. Peete sighed loudly and shook her woolly gray hair loose from its cap. But she didn’t try to argue.

Late in the afternoon, Grace mopped the water off the floor by her washtub. “I’m going to change my dress and go out for a bit,” she told Mrs. Peete.

“Don’t you be walkin’ the streets alone after dark,” Mrs. Peete scolded.

Grace didn’t answer. She ran the wet rag over her face and arms and went to her room and changed her dress.

“Cain’t trust ’em link boys,” Mrs. Peete said, following Grace back to her room. “They says they’ll pertect you, but they’ll lead you down a dark alley, like as not. Then they’ll blow out their lamps and leave you at the mercy of robbers, is wot!”

Grace said nothing.

“The robbers pays ’em to do it,” Mrs. Peete said.

“And just what do I have that anyone would care to steal?” Grace snapped. Regretting her brusqueness, she quickly added, “Thank you, Mrs. Peete, for worrying over me. I will take care.”

With quick steps, Grace headed for the coffeehouse. After Ena’s warning, she thought the men from Parliament might even come this day. She planned to tell them her story, in as complete and moving a way as possible, but she had no intention of stopping there. She fully intended to ask those important men for something in return.

According to Ena, in England men in Parliament helped the king rule the country. Something like the white partners of African kings, Grace figured. Surely partners of England’s king were powerful enough to get Grace to the United States of America. Surely they could help her find Cabeto. Maybe they would even buy his freedom the way they had bought Jesse his freedom. If they would, she and Cabeto would both work for them forever. That’s what she intended to say. That’s what she would
plead
!

The question was, should she tell the others in the group of her plans? What if they objected? Jesse certainly would— especially the part about working in exchange for Cabeto’s freedom. But what about Ethan Preston? What about Ena?

Grace was still far down the street, a long way before she would turn toward the coffeehouse, when she noticed the commotion up ahead. Confused and worried, she ran all the way to the turn in the road. And right there is where she saw him—her father, Joseph Winslow. He was running toward her, his hair flying and his eyes wild and red.

For a minute Grace thought she was having some sort of terrible nightmare. Even through the smoky haze she could make out the familiar blotchy face and straggly red hair. And then she saw the rumpled suit, and she knew for certain that it was no dream.

“Father!” Grace gasped.

At the sound of his daughter’s voice, Joseph stumbled backward, as though someone had hit him in the face. Then, his
red eyes darting like a trapped animal’s, he lurched forward again.

“Father!” Grace cried. “What happened?”

“T’was fer ye, me darlin’,” he gasped. “Fer ye!”

“But what—”

“Jist on the chance that it ain’t yet too late.”

Then he was gone.

Grace ran to the end of the street, but she could see nothing through the throng of people. She pushed her way forward, through the crowd and on around the corner. Up ahead, roaring flames consumed the coffeehouse.

Grace screamed and fell to her knees.

“Ena!” she shrieked. “Ena, where are you? Where is everyone?”