Voyage of Midnight

by Michele Torrey

  Several times during the voyage, Uncle invited me to dine at his table, where he asked after my studies and my health. Besides eating better food (for the captain’s larder was more generous and varied than that of the crew), we chatted happily, with me doing most of the chatting. I told him how I’d recently charted the course of my life. Never again would I drift according to the desires of others, for I’d be a slave trader, just like him. Upon my announcement, a smile creased Uncle’s face and his pale blue eyes glittered as if he’d just opened a chest brimming with treasure.

  At our next supper, he presented me with a pair of gold hoop earrings, the Book of Common Prayer, two volumes of Shakespeare, and a Spanish learner. He said Spanish was a language I must master if I wanted to one day fill his shoes. I thanked him in Greek, Latin, and French, adding that an aptitude for languages was my gift from God.

  The air in Uncle’s cabin smelled of chicken and dumplings and fried potatoes. My stomach was full and tight, and I thought what with the gifts from Uncle, all the food that I wanted, and the course of my life charted, I’d never been happier. Smiling, I let out a contented sigh.

  Uncle leaned back in his chair and paused to light one of his new Cuban cigars before saying, “You do know that it’s illegal, don’t you, lad?”

  “Really? Learning Spanish is illegal?”

  “No, but the slave trade is.”

  My smile faded. I was silent as the ship creaked and moaned, not certain what Uncle meant. Hadn’t I seen hundreds of slaves in New Orleans? How, then, could it be illegal?

  As if he’d read my mind, Uncle said, “Oh, it’s still all right to own slaves.” He waved his cigar about. A cloud of blue smoke hovered above us, smelling strong and sweet. “Probably always will be, as it’s the natural order of things, the way God intended, written plain as day in the Holy Bible.”

  “Then what do you mean? How is it against the law?”

  He squinted at me through the smoke. “What I mean is, a few years ago our beloved British government decided that it was illegal to export slaves, to take them from Africa and sell them elsewhere. Slaves now have to propagate themselves, for there will no longer be any fresh ones from Africa, not if England has her way.” He paused to cough. “Ridiculous law. Now, because the slave trade is illegal, what used to be a respectable occupation has become one of smuggling.”

  Smuggling? “You—you mean …” My voice trailed off. Some of my excitement over the gifts he’d just given me blew away like cigar smoke. It’d never entered my mind that I’d be disobeying the law. So far as I knew, I’d never disobeyed the law, or any person, in my lifetime. Such a prospect filled me with dreadful fright. “But—but why is it illegal?”

  Uncle put his cigar to his lips. The end glowed with fire. Over the orange tip, he watched me intently. “Why? Because some halfwit somewhere in some bloody parliamentary hall thinks that somehow he can stop the natural order of the universe. They sit there with their wigs and ink stains and think they know the way of the world. It’s a ridiculous law, this prohibition of the slave trade. Total rubbish. Misty-eyed nonsense is the sum of it. Violates man’s free will and his desire to engage in enterprise.”

  I picked at the binding of my Spanish learner. “Then what will happen if we’re caught by the Royal Navy?”

  “Nothing.” Leaning back in his chair, he belched, absently patting his stomach.

  “Nothing?”

  “Because, Philip, my lad, Britain has no authority over the Stars and Stripes.” He smiled, his gold teeth lighting up his swarthy face. “We’re an American vessel, owned by Yanks. And while the slave trade is illegal in the United States as well, the American government doesn’t seem to care too much. Oh, they have a few gunboats here and there, but mostly the politicians pat Britain’s hand and tell her what she wants to hear, meanwhile looking the other way as the American slave traders ply their trade and make the United States rich. Ha! How I love America!” He shook his head, chuckling. “And Britain doesn’t dare illegally board an American or French ship, as to do so might start another war.”

  “Then why am I learning Spanish?” I asked, and rushed to add, “Not that I don’t want to, Uncle—”

  “Simple. In case we should run across an American cruiser—highly unlikely, by the way—Yanks have no authority over Spanish vessels. And lucky for us, the ship’s name, the Formidable”— except Uncle pronounced it For-mi-DAH-blay—“is the same, whether in Spanish or English. If worse comes to worst, I become Don Pedro, while you become Don Felipe. It’s simpler that way. Of course the ruse will only be believable if we speak tolerable Spanish. Even my ship’s papers are in Spanish.”

  “Your papers?”

  “Sí, Don Felipe. The ship’s logs and certificate of ownership.” Again he laughed, motioning to the captain’s desk with his cigar. “You can check my papers if you want. All is in order for a Spanish vessel. They’re fake, of course. The real papers I keep inside here.” He patted his corn-husk mattress. “Trust me, no one will find them.”

  “No one?”

  Uncle winked. “Not unless you tell them.”

  “Then nothing will happen?”

  “Trust me, Philip. Nothing will happen.”

  I did trust Uncle, more than I’d trusted anyone in my life. If Uncle said nothing would happen, then nothing would happen. If Uncle said that anti-slave-trading laws were ridiculous, then they were ridiculous. After all, I told myself, Master Crump made all sorts of rules—eat your gruel, no pillows, only one blanket per child—but that didn’t make them right. Just because something is a rule or a law doesn’t mean it’s right or good.

  I licked my lips, weighing my words. “I do trust you, Uncle, more’n anyone I’ve ever known.”

  He clenched his cigar in his teeth, reached over, and patted my shoulder. “That’s my Philip.”

  Later that night, under the light of a lantern hanging from the mainmast, Jonas pierced my ears.

  “This will smart,” he warned me, and I could tell by the slur in his voice that he was half-seas over.

  “Just keep the needle steady, will you?”

  He grabbed my earlobe with a filthy hand and stabbed it.

  I was unprepared for the wave of pain that quickly drained the blood from my head, turning my bones and the stool beneath me to rubber.

  Jonas moved to the other side. “Brace yourself, boy, here comes the other one.”

  I bit my lip. My heart fluttered. My eyes watered. But within minutes, to my pride, two gold earrings were dangling from my earlobes.

  Jonas bent close. His breath smelled like the bilge. “Well, I’ll be. Never knew till now how much you look like Captain Towne.”

  “Do I?”

  “Aye. Both of you look like right scoundrels, you do.” He burst into his donkey-bray laugh and placed the needle back in its pouch.

  I held up a mirror.

  Do I truly look like Uncle?

  Indeed, I saw the same blue eyes, the same mouth, the same nose, the same dark brown hair. And no longer was I the pale, wan lad of yesteryear. During the weeks of life at sea, my skin had weathered. Under my curly hair, a dab of blood trickled down each side of my neck. But peering closely into the mirror at my earrings and at the fresh wounds behind them, I became aware that I wasn’t the only figure reflected. Over my shoulder, staring at me from behind my back, was Pea Soup. And simmering in his eyes and written upon his face, I saw it clearly—an emotion so intense, so naked, that the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  Hatred.

  I whirled about.

  But Pea Soup merely stared at the deck, his face blank, sweeping with his broom.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  During the first part of April, we sailed along the coast of the Gulf of Guinea. It was the beginning of the rainy season, and the rain fell in torrents. The wind, punctuated by squalls, gusted from our port quarter, pushing us along at a furious rate.

  Africa …

  I could scarcely
wait to arrive. The very name of that dark, mysterious continent stirred my soul and promised excitement and wealth, despite the fact that I was now a smuggler as well as a master, speculator, and entrepreneur.

  The whole crew seemed on edge. Tempers rose. Fights erupted. On account of the rains, those not on duty were confined to the lower deck, where the men sweated and stank like old cheese. Jonas and I took refuge in our cabin. I took to wearing white cotton pantaloons and a loose linen shirt, having received several of each as parting gifts from Mr. Emmanuel Fitch. Still, I sweated in the claustrophobic heat. Billy Dorsett asked if I’d an extra set of cottons he could borrow, but I fibbed and said it was my only one, and didn’t he have something important to do?

  On the morning of the seventh day, the rains abruptly ceased. I emerged onto a steaming deck, blinking like a sewer rat, the sun piercing the backs of my eyes. A sweltering, damp breeze blew over the Formidable, smelling of wet wood, salted sea, and earth. On the horizon, still miles away, a line of land stretched as far east and west as the eye could see. It appeared flat, and without feature.

  “Africa,” announced my uncle. He stood beside me and placed an arm companionably about my shoulder.

  “The delta of the river Bonny,” I replied, for although the weather had been rotten, I’d continued to assist my uncle with navigation and knew our destination.

  “Beware, beware the Bight of Benin: One comes out, where fifty went in.…”

  “Excuse me?” I stared at my uncle.

  He burst out laughing. “Just an old saying,” he said jovially, thumping me between the shoulder blades. Then he turned and began issuing orders as the crew scurried about, flinging themselves up and down the shrouds and across the yards like monkeys. He posted lookouts, ordering them to keep a weather eye out for any distant sail.

  “But we’re safe, right?” I said to Jonas, who’d joined me at the rail. “If it’s a British warship, we fly the Stars and Stripes. If it’s an American warship, we fly the Spanish flag. Right, Jonas? We’re safe, aren’t we?”

  Jonas shrugged. “Safe enough. The law says they have to catch you with slaves aboard, otherwise they have to let you go.” His yellow, protruding eyes gazed sharply out to sea, this way, that way; his fingers drummed the rail. “All the same, boy, best just to steer clear and avoid trouble altogether. Don’t want them even knowing we’re in the neighborhood.”

  We thankfully saw no sign of sail, and the Formidable made good course for the outermost shoals, which extended miles seaward of the delta, creating a frightful surf. Here we navigated a channel that led to the great estuary, all the while with the sounding lead in hand to measure the depths, for the estuary was very shallow and dangerous.

  After anxiously waiting for the flood tide, our clipper-brig Formidable scraped over the bar and sailed up the waters of the Bonny, a river half as broad and deep as the Mississippi. We sailed past Bonny Town, shaded by coconut palms and plantain and banana trees, and past a dozen legitimate traders anchored in the waterway. As we sailed, a number of Africans paddled out in a large canoe and boarded our vessel. They seemed pleased to see Uncle, and he likewise to see them. (He was a very important man, I was learning.) For a price, they’d pilot us upriver to our destination.

  Two hours later we cautiously worked our way under easy sail into one of the many creeks that fed the Bonny.

  Dense forests of mangroves lined the water’s edge. Birds took to flight as our tall masts skimmed by. Finally, when the sounding lead revealed only three and a half fathoms of water, we put down the helm and dropped anchor.

  The next morning, my uncle, Jonas, eight sailors armed with muskets, and I set off up the creek in the big canoe, with the Africans paddling.

  Heat rose in sultry waves. Insects chorused, and clouds of mosquitoes droned about me. I swatted them away, grateful that one of the Africans had suggested I rub my body with palm oil to prevent their bites. But the palm oil had other effects. My clothes, freshly laundered the night before, were now oily and clinging to me. I wished I could bathe in the creek, but Uncle told me to beware: the creek teemed with crocodiles and man-eating sharks. Put one toe in the water and they’d eat you alive.

  I clutched the gunwale and peered into the murky water. A snake swam by. And deeper, a blackish gray shape, seven feet or longer, kept pace with our canoe. I saw another. And another. Blimey! Sharks? I glanced at Jonas, who was sitting beside me. Sweat was trickling into his eyes. He blinked and wiped his face on his sleeve, panting a bit. He didn’t look so well. Come to think of it, I didn’t feel so well either. I sat rigidly, sweating like a beast, and prayed that our canoe was stout.

  The noon sky was clouded over and my stomach was growling by the time we pulled up onto a clearing nestled between mangrove swamps. Two buildings constructed of cane poles wrapped in vines and daubed with mud stood in the center.

  The Africans who were guarding the buildings greeted us, and we disembarked. One of the Africans from Bonny Town served as interpreter.

  “We’ve come to buy slaves,” my uncle told the leader.

  “We have plenty of slaves for you,” he was informed. “I am the king’s representative. First you make generous gift to King Pepple and then we bring slaves out so you can have a look.”

  After gifts of handkerchiefs, chintz fabric, silk, cotton, beer, and brandy were ceremoniously presented, the afternoon was a parade of human flesh. My uncle, in shirt and duck trousers, with a palm-leaf hat and his rattan cane, walked up and down the fettered queues, smoking his cigar. Men, women, boys, and girls—hundreds of them—stood stark naked before him. “Look here,” Uncle said as I tagged along behind him. “You must open their mouths and look at their teeth and smell their breath. Rotted teeth and fetid breath are signs of ill health. We want only healthy negroes.”

  And as we peered into this mouth and that mouth—Jonas too—a hard knot formed in my stomach and a queasiness stole over me like a thief.

  What’s wrong with me? I wondered. Something I ate?

  “See this one?” Uncle was saying, poking the slave of interest with his rattan cane. “See the gray hair, both on the head and the privy parts? He’s quite old. Won’t survive the journey over, and I daresay no one would buy him even if he did.” With a snap of his fingers, he ordered the man removed from the queue. “The children? They’re like little trout. If they don’t come up to here in height, we don’t want them. No babies.”

  First Jonas, then Uncle, pinched and slapped each one’s flesh, squeezing their muscles and buttocks and probing their armpits. They ordered them to raise their arms, to jump, to dance, to turn about, to speak, to breathe deeply, and to cough. “See that one?” said Uncle to me. “Weak leg. Don’t want him. And this one? She’s coughing. She’ll need treatment before we can accept her. Generally speaking, though, they’re prime stock. Yes, prime stock indeed. Should make the passage without too much bother.” Here, as Jonas moved on, Uncle paused and pierced me with his blue-eyed gaze. “Something the matter, Nephew?”

  “I—I don’t know, really. I feel ill. Must’ve eaten something rotten.” I covered my stomach with my hand and grimaced, suddenly wishing Uncle would order me back to the Formidable.

  Uncle studied me a while longer before he sighed and clasped an arm about my shoulder. We began to stroll past the rows of slaves. “Maybe it’s indigestion; maybe it’s not,” he was saying. “I won’t lie to you, Philip. Slaving isn’t easy. I started in the business when I was twelve—”

  “You were only twelve?” I looked at my uncle with new eyes, feeling an even greater bond between us.

  “Yes indeed. I was hardly taller than your shoe strap. Didn’t know anything more about it than you do now. Took me a couple of years to harden up to it, to become a man. It’s a man’s business, no doubt about it, a business no one with sensibility should attend, but it must be done just the same. A necessary evil, so to speak.”

  “A necessary evil?” I blinked, confused.

  “You see, Philip, s
lavery is a way of life here in Africa. Natural order of their society. Been going on for thousands of years. The tribes continually fight among themselves, taking prisoners of war and forcing them into slavery. All these people you see in front of you? They’re prisoners of war. It’s a sad situation, to be sure. So, if you follow my reasoning, if we didn’t take the slaves, then the Africans would just enslave the prisoners—or, more likely, dispatch them as surplus population.”

  “Dispatch them?”

  “Kill them.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’ve only so much food and water to go about, you know. So really, we’re doing the slaves a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Saving their lives, in a way.” He gestured about him with his cane. “Look at the conditions these people live in—the swamps, the mosquitoes, even sharks in their bloody rivers. They’re savages. Ignorant, naked savages. Half of them are cannibals. Believe me, once they reach civilization, they’ll be better off and thank us.”

  I chewed my lip, pondering. “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so.” Uncle smiled. Again he gestured about him, cigar smoke trailing his arm in a gray plume. “Would you want to live like this?”

  “No,” I answered truthfully.

  “Then you agree we’re doing them a favor?”

  Eyeing the rows of slaves, naked, dusted with dirt, living out their lives in a godforsaken savage land, I thought how different they’d look once they took up life in America. They’d have clothes, learn to speak English, attend Mass at Saint Louis Cathedral, perhaps even go to Mr. Gallagher’s shop to have a prescription filled for their master or mistress. It was a comforting thought. And then they wouldn’t be enslaved in Africa, or killed as surplus population. “Yes, Uncle, we’re doing them a favor.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Uncle took one more puff from his cigar, then flicked it onto the sand, where it lay smoking. “Feeling better?”