The Voyage of Promise (20 page)

A
fter the men manning the bucket brigades poured out their last buckets of water and counted their work complete, the gossips collected every possible detail about the coffeehouse fire and hurried away to tell and retell their versions of the story. The crowds of people finally tired of gawking and drifted back home, but Grace stayed beside the pile of smoldering beams and glowing ashes and wept. Jesse would have run away, but what about the others? None of them was the kind to let threats and intimidations send them scurrying away to hide.

And Ena. What about Ena?

Grace could not bring herself to look too closely at the still-glowing pile of charred boards and red hot embers.

I should have been here!
Grace sobbed.
Why was I washing sheets instead of helping my friends get ready for—for what?
The truth was, Grace didn’t even know what they were doing. And “friend” was an awfully lofty term for people about whom she knew nothing but names.

The fact was, fires were a common occurrence in London. So many candles, all allowed to burn down to the very last
drop of wax and wick. And in the coffeehouse, so much paper, spread out on every table. Add that to all the men with a penchant for waving newspapers around the candle flames and it was a wonder the coffeehouse had survived as long as it had. Still… why a fire now at this most important of times? Why just as Ethan Preston’s committee finally had gathered together all the documents they needed, and sympathetic men from Parliament agreed to place it on their busy schedules to consider their arguments?

At the brush of a hand across her back, Grace screamed and jumped aside.

“Ena!” she cried when she saw who it was. So lost had Grace been in her misery and fear that she never heard her friend’s footsteps come up behind her. “Oh, Ena, are you all right?”

Ena, her own eyes red and wet, nodded. Then she threw her arms around Grace and hugged her.

“Where are the others?” Grace cried. “Was anyone in the coffeehouse?”

“Almost,” Ena said. “But in the end, no one was. That’s what makes it all so strange.”

Grace had no idea what Ena was talking about.

“The men from Parliament were to come here tonight!” Ena exclaimed. “The plans were all made, but Mister Preston didn’t want anyone to know because he suspected that someone on the committee was a spy for the anti-abolitionists.”

“Then how do you know?” Grace asked.

“Because I was the one who passed the word along. At the stroke of noon, each person had a private message from Mister Preston asking them to meet him upstairs in the coffeehouse. Everyone thought it was a private message. No one knew the others would also be there.”

“You didn’t bring me a message,” Grace said.

“You always come after the noon chimes, anyway. Mister Preston said not to bother you at Mrs. Peete’s house.”

Grace stared at her. “He didn’t trust me?”

After an uncomfortable moment, Ena said, “I knew you were not the spy. I told everyone as much. But think, Grace. Someone did know our plans. And because someone knew, someone set a horrible trap to roast the lot of us alive.”

“But at noon—”

“At noon, no one was there because Mister Preston sent me running back out again with another message. ‘Go back home!’ I told everyone. ‘Go back home and stay there!’ ” I caught everyone in time, before they came to the coffeehouse.

“But how did Mister Preston know?” Grace asked.

“Someone whispered the plans to him,” Ena said. “Only Mister Preston knows who, and he is sworn to never tell.”

Spies crept among them and informers murmured warnings, yet when suspicions erupted, the very ones who trusted her most pointed their suspicions at her.

No
, Grace thought,
these people are not my friends. I don’t even know these people. And these people certainly do not know me!

The next day, while Grace was in the garden hanging shirts and petticoats and blouses on the washing line, she gazed over the fence at the people who walked up and down the lane, just as she always did. Two boys ran past, then a woman balancing a basket of pork pies on her head, calling out her wares. Then, just behind the pie woman, Grace saw Ena running down the lane toward her. Never before had Ena come to Mrs. Peete’s house. Grace threw the embroidered handkerchief in her hand over the line and ran out to meet Ena.

“We’ll be meeting tonight,” Ena panted. “In the parlor of Sir Thomas’s estate! Can you imagine? The likes of you and me, Grace, sitting in that parlor just like two ladies! Not
serving anyone and not cleaning up after the others, just sitting with our idle hands in our lazy laps!”

“When?” Grace asked.

“At seven o’clock. Sir Thomas will send his carriage ’round for you.”

When Sir Thomas McClennon’s carriage stopped in front of Mrs. Peete’s house that evening, the washerwoman could hardly contain herself.

“A day to burn into me ’and, is wot it be!” Mrs. Peete exclaimed as she grinned and clapped her hands.

Ena was already in the carriage, and the two young women giggled and talked all the way to Sir Thomas’s fine home on the West End.

As the carriage swayed and dipped gently, Grace marveled at the ease of the ride. “This carriage doesn’t clatter and shake,” she said in wonder.

“You must have been in a hackney coach!” Ena laughed. But the real surprise came when Ena and Grace entered the parlor at Sir Thomas McClennon’s estate. Instead of eight people plus Grace, the room was crammed with thirty or forty men and women who all talked at once.

“But to actually attempt to burn innocent men and women to death!” an angry man shouted. “I say that every person who took part in such a travesty should have his head and arms thrust through a pillory. Lay by a basket of rotten eggs and moldy vegetables, then we shall all have our say!”

“And a goodly lot of rotting fish as well,” suggested a round woman in a bonnet who sat next to Lady Susanna. “Even that be too good for them, I’d say.”

“Slime from the slaughterhouse floor too!” Rebekah Patterson called out, her fist pummeling the air. Her husband hastened to lay his hand on her arm and urged a degree of restraint.

Then a stranger took up the call and insisted, “Bricks, is wot! And don’t tell me it ain’t legal, neither. No better way to show the people’s mind than to heave a good-sized brick to the rotter’s head!”

“Better than a hanging,” another reasoned.

Ethan Preston did his best to calm the crowd. Sir Thomas, always the picture of supreme calm and poise, flapped helplessly from one unruly group to another, pleading for composure and patience.

“Who do you think the informer was?” Grace asked Ena.

“I don’t know,” Ena replied. “I cannot believe it of any of them.”

Grace looked around the room. “Jesse is not here,” she said.

“No,” said Ena. “He is not.”

Mister Preston did not seem to be having much success at regaining order. An exasperated Sir Thomas ordered the front door bolted and summoned his male servants to help remove unruly persons. At one point it looked as though this might include young Oliver Meredith. He was embroiled in an argument with a lawyer who, after assessing the luxurious surroundings, suggested he be paid a goodly sum up front to prosecute the arson villains once they were apprehended.

“A vain, greedy pig,” is the way Mister Meredith spat out his description of the barrister.

“Slander!” the lawyer shot back. “It is I who demonstrate a willingness to risk mob vengeance in order to champion a greater good. And, if I do dare say so, I perform my services most gallantly.”

“And for a good, fat price,” added Mister Meredith.

Grace whispered, “Do you think someone really intended to kill us, Ena?”

“I know someone did.”

“How can you be so certain?” Grace asked.

Ena leaned close and whispered into Grace’s ear. “I hear things whilst I work in the house of the woman who lived in Africa.”

“Is she like us?”

“Oh, no!” said Ena. “She is all white. She looks like a ghost. She’s young like us, but her hair is white and her eyes are the color of the summer sky.”

Grace stared at Ena. “Like a ghost? What is her name?”

“Lady Witherham,” Ena said.

“Her other name! What is her familiar name?”

“Charlotte. Her name is Lady Charlotte.”

“Take me to her!” Grace demanded. “Now, Ena! Please! Take me to her right now!”

“What has gotten into you, girl? You don’t want to go to her house. It is the home of the devil himself.”

“Please, Ena. I
must
see Lady Charlotte. Now! Can we go in Sir Thomas’s carriage?”

“No,” said Ena. “I will not take you there tonight.”

“Tomorrow?” Grace pleaded.

“Tomorrow,” Ena conceded. “After the church bells chime noon, meet me at the barn and I will take you.”

W
hat we have on our side is even tempers and rational thinking,” Lord Reginald Witherham said. “Would that we could lead the march ourselves.”

“Dear me, no!” exclaimed Augustus Jamison. “That would defeat our purpose, would it not? If the hope is to stir up the unstable emotionalism of the common populace, we must not appear to be involved in any way.”

Lord Reginald cast a critical eye over the twelve dock-workers Joseph Winslow had rounded up with the promise of the hefty wage of a gold crown each. A motley crew they were. And yet, was this assortment of fellows not a sampling of the very populace he wanted to attract?

Lord Reginald pointed to the tallest man of the group and handed him a hand-painted placard tacked to a stick. The tall man turned the placard over and squinted at it.

“Cain’t read,” he said. “Wot do it say?”

Lord Reginald allowed an exasperated sigh to escape his lips. He pointed out each word as he read the sign:

“Civilized slave trade is what we demand,” Lord Reginald stated. “And that shall be our rally cry.”

“Is you incitin’ a riot
fer
the slave trade or
agin
’ it?” Joseph Winslow asked.

The vein in Lord Reginald’s forehead began to throb. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to take a deep breath. “We are
not
inciting a riot at all, my good man,” he said with exaggerated patience. “These lads here will simply march to the Houses of Parliament, as is their right as Englishmen. Those of a rational, like mind will pour from their houses to join them. What that unsettled segment of the population that inevitably allows itself to be whipped this way and that by every tearful story and emotional report will do, I know not. Nor is it my concern. Should they mob together and lose control—as they have done in the past—it shall simply prove once again how unprepared the people are to have the role of government thrust upon them.”

The men stood blinking at one another.

Lord Reginald handed the placard to the tall man. “Hold it high, for all to see,” he instructed. “For you, my good man, shall have the honor of leading the march.”

“Leadin’ ’em where?” the tall man asked.

“All the way to the House of Commons! Now, what do you think of that?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the tall man said hesitantly. “I do wants the money, but I doesn’t want no trouble.”

“Nonsense, my good fellow,” said Lord Reginald in an uncommonly cheerful voice. “This group, under your leadership, shall form the heart and soul of a great populist march.
Right now coaches are waiting to deposit you in the heart of the city, and from there you shall head for The New Road and on across Westminster Bridge, then to Westminster Palace, waving your placards and chanting heartily. Along the way, men and women will rush to your side and join the march. Continue right on to the House of Commons. You shall have the great honor of presenting the people’s petition against abolition. The crowd behind you will cheer you on.”

“And when does we git the pay we was promised?” asked a stocky fellow with a too-tight jacket that made him look like a stuffed sausage.

“When the march is concluded and not one moment sooner,” Lord Reginald snapped. “Furthermore, you will be paid the crown only if you do your job well. If you mind your promise to keep your silence and not say one word about the money or assistance to anyone, another crown will be coming for each of you. Your silence, I repeat, is of utmost importance. This is to be a spontaneous march.”

“Yeah, spon— sponten’ous,” echoed an unshaved fellow with a thick black mustache.

“This matters to you!” Lord Reginald insisted. “For should the slave trade come to an end, so shall your employment at the docks!”

“Remember, you know nothing of any of us,” stressed Sir Geoffrey Philips nervously.

“Jist us,” said the tall dockworker. “Sponten’ous.”

“Who has the other placard?” Lord Reginald asked. “Come, come! Hold it high for all to see.”

After a good bit of rustling about and mumbling amongst the men, a bushy-haired fellow answered, “Me, Frankie. I has it.”

Frankie held up his sign:

“Using words copied directly out of the Bible was a good idea, Lord Reginald,” Gus Jamison said.

Lord Reginald laughed. “Let us see the Quakers and that preacher John Wesley argue with that!”

“They only be a dozen of us,” Frankie pointed out. “Nobody is likely to take us fer a riotin’ mob.”

Lord Reginald rubbed his head in exasperation. How many times must he explain the plan to these simpletons? The sooner he could be free of these fools, the happier he would be.

“Kindly listen attentively,” Lord Reginald said as though he were addressing a roomful of dull children. “You will march from Covent Gardens, smart and confident, carrying the placards high. You will loudly chant slogans such as:
No More Abolition Talk!
and
Save African Souls
and
Slavery Keeps England Strong
. As you march forward, your rational passion will ignite others, and they will rush to join your ranks. Do not hurry. Wind through the streets, so as to give the people a chance to join your cause. Indeed, call out encouragement to them to do so. By the time you reach the House of Commons, you will be leading many hundreds, perhaps many thousands, of people who agree with your cause. But you will
not
be rioting. It is the
Dissenters
who will be the cause of any trouble, not you.”

“Continue on with the march no matter what happens behind you,” Gus Jamison interjected. “Keep walking. It is not for you to join in any fight. And it is not for you to involve yourselves in a riot.”

“Certainly not if you expect your pay!” Lord Reginald warned.

Four hackney cabs stood ready to take the men to their starting point. Lord Reginald was most eager to have the scruffy lot on its way. Still, ruffians that they were, Lord Reginald figured that should hot-headed abolition-minded folk challenge them the result would certainly be a brawling mob—even a full-blown riot. But because it would begin as nothing but a peaceable march to deliver the people’s petition as was their right, the blame would lie squarely with the reactionary abolitionists, not the peaceable marchers.

Good.

Perfect.

“Although you will not see us, we shall know with what passion and energy each of you performs his duties,” Lord Reginald informed the men. “And you, my good man—” (here he nodded to the tall man) “you lead well and I will see that still another reward is included for you.”

As the coaches rumbled away, Sir Geoffrey Philips said to no one in particular, “I must confess, the African trade is not a thing I personally like. I do have second thoughts about certain elements of it. Yet I recognize that we must have it. I have learned to make peace with the trade.”

With the gleam in his eye of an extra shilling—perhaps even an extra crown—the tall man pulled the others together at Covent Gardens. Glancing about him in hopes of locating eyes of approval, he launched the march. And while the men’s chants were admittedly lackluster, and their march was spectacularly weak in the areas of force and passion, still, they held their placards high and immediately attracted attention. More than a few people stopped to stare, although no one seemed inclined to rally around their cause. Certainly no one fell in with their march.

“
Save African Souls!
” the men chanted.

“
Remember the
Zong!” someone in the crowd shouted back. Certainly everyone in the gathering crowd did remember that most infamous event. Who could forget such an atrocity, only ten years earlier? The
Zong
—a British ship at that!—out of Liverpool, sailing from Africa. With the ship overcrowded with slaves, crawling with disease, and running low on provisions, Captain Luke Collingwood faced the likelihood of arriving at the slave markets with a ship full of sick and dying captives, and a huge loss of money for his trouble. Too bad the slaves didn’t all die at sea, he thought, for then his “cargo” insurance would pay the losses. It was that thought that inspired Collingwood with an idea. And with the encouragement of his first mate, he came up with a solution: the crew simply tossed one hundred twenty-two sick African slaves overboard to drown in the icy sea. Then they were free to give the remaining provisions to the healthiest slaves, and the insurers would have to pay for those lost. It was a business decision. A simple matter of profit and loss.

But that’s not how the public saw it. Once the story became known, they were outraged.

“
Remember the
Zong!” The gathering crowd took up the chant. And unlike the dock men, they
did
have passion behind them.

“
Remember the
Zong!”

The twelve men looked around them, perplexed by the fury of the crowd.

“
Civilization to Africans!
” the stuffed-sausage fellow yelled out, desperate to change the tone. Eagerly the men with him picked up his chant.

But the crowd was already closing in around them, and someone called out: “
England—Land of Liberty!
” Soon this chant completely drowned out the men’s words.

Frankie threw his placard down and darted into the gathering crowd in a desperate attempt to lose himself amongst the crush of people.

“Ye won’t git yer pay!” the tall man shouted to him.

“Ye won’t live to spend yers,” Frankie yelled back.

On the far edge of the crowd, Joseph Winslow, fully sober, ran his hand through his red hair. He turned his back on what truly was turning out to be a mob scene, and he walked away. He neither cheered nor mourned—except for his empty pockets and the two gold crowns he would not be jingling this night.