A voice as small as the body asked, “Is that my dear Erica?”
“It is. I have brought John Falconer with me.”
“Excellent. Do please make yourselves comfortable.”
Falconer lifted a chair and drew it close to the bed for Erica. But he chose to remain standing. He could not see himself seated in such a place as this. Gareth looked up but said nothing.
“Gareth has read to me your words, Erica,” continued the man on the bed. “They are excellent, my dear. I only wish you had remained to hear them.”
“I could scarcely read them once they were written. They pained me so I broke down and wept,” she answered softly.
“They are indeed powerful. Let us pray they offer the final impetus.” Wilberforce seemed able to see Gareth through the veil of his bandage. “And the young lady’s drawings, are they as powerful as Erica has made them sound?”
“An artillery barrage would not carry more force,” Gareth replied.
“Let us hope they carry the day. Now then. What are your plans?”
“We leave for Parliament in an hour.”
“The members will have seen the pamphlet?”
“Our presses ran all night. Copies were delivered at dawn.”
Wilberforce’s breathing was the softest rasp, like winter chaff rattling in the wind. He was quiet for so long Falconer thought perhaps he had fallen back asleep. Then the little man said, “John Falconer.”
“Your servant, sir.”
“Gareth has told me something of your journey. It has been arduous.”
Falconer knew without being told that the man did not speak of his voyage across the Atlantic. “Were it to help rid this world of one such evil, sir, I would count it as naught.”
“Well said. Gareth, a bit of water, if you please.”
The man had to be lifted slightly from the pillow in order to sip from the cup. Gareth held him with the tenderness he might offer his own child.
When William Wilberforce had resettled upon the pillow, he said, “For myself, hardship has carried both burden and opportunity. I do not seek it, I do not like it. But I have found myself learning in spite of myself. Against my will at times. Groaning and crying aloud all the while. At such times I find myself thinking of Moses. He endured a forty-year trek in the wilderness and at its end died in worldly defeat. But he vanquished all, did he not? He started the history that is now our own.”
Erica reached into the pocket of her dress and drew out a handkerchief. Falconer had not realized until then that she was crying.
Wilberforce swallowed with great difficulty. He said softly, “Who will stand in the place of law and judgment? Who will speak the truth?”
Falconer came to ramrod attention. “I will, sir. Send me.”
Serafina took her second cup of tea back to her room, entering the small chamber half fearful that she might discover lingering traces of her nightmare. Yet all she saw was sunlight and all she heard was birdsong to accompany the memory of Falconer’s strength. She set her tea upon the little desk, made her bed and straightened her few belongings, then pulled out the stool and seated herself. Every room held a Bible. She turned to the book of John and began to read. But in truth her mind returned time and again to the way Falconer had stood over her, a warrior so strong he could battle even her secret beast.
There was a knock upon her open door. “Ah, good. I hoped to find you here.”
Serafina rose to her feet as Erica entered her little room. “Good morning. I’m sorry, I don’t have a proper chair. . . .”
Erica shut the door, then turned to Serafina with a smile. “The house will be gathering soon to pray over Falconer and what lies ahead. But I wanted us first to have a private word.”
“Of course.” Serafina seated herself upon the bed so that Erica might take the little stool. “I cannot thank you and your husband enough for all you have done.”
“You are most welcome. But that is not why I have come. My husband and I have spoken, and he agrees that I should share something with you. A secret of my own.” She gathered her hands into her lap. “The day I met my husband, one of his men murdered my father.”
“Oh no.” Serafina clutched one hand to her chest.
“I loved my father very much, and to see him slain, lying in the Georgetown street while British soldiers marched by . . .” Erica shook away the memory. “I spent years loathing Gareth Powers. I hated him even though I did not yet know his name. He was my enemy.”
“I-I do not understand.”
“No. Of course not.” She reached over and took one of Serafina’s hands. “What I mean to say, my dear, is that sometimes what humanly seems impossible is merely unfinished business in God’s eyes.”
“You speak of . . .” For once, the name came with difficulty to her lips. “Falconer?”
“I speak of your future. You think your capacity to love has been extinguished. But you must never underestimate the power of prayer. Or the strength of God’s healing grace.” Erica’s fondness showed itself in a smile of promise. “When I was in the midst of my own fury and pain and distress, I thought the future held nothing but more of the same. How wrong I was. Eventually I came to discover my own emotions were holding back God’s work in my life.”
Serafina could not speak, nor could she turn from the compassion in Erica’s gaze. When she remained silent, Erica gave her hand a gentle squeeze and rose to her feet. “I simply wanted to suggest that you pray upon this thought. That you become open to whatever God has in store. No matter how impossible such a future might seem.”
She waited at the door for Serafina to rise and join her. “Let God guide your steps in all things. Even love.” She took Serafina’s hand. “Now, let us go and pray for Falconer.”
Chapter 29
After they completed their preparations for Westminster, the house gathered and prayed together. Afterwards, Erica Powers embraced her husband upon the doorstep. She then turned to Falconer and took both of his hands in hers. Eyes filled with a luminosity not of this earth drew him from his panic. Falconer took great heart in knowing she intended to pray through the hours until their return.
She said simply, “Go with God.”
Serafina stood beside Erica. She made as if to touch his hand, then withdrew and said, “I shall be with Mrs. Powers. Offering what I can.”
Falconer’s voice failed him. He nodded thanks to both women, then climbed into the carriage.
Gareth Powers accompanied him. Daniel went as well, as did two more of the former soldiers now employed in the printing house. Falconer felt completely secure. No matter what might happen this day, he felt protected within the power of his allies, both seen and unseen.
As they approached the gleaming bastion, Gareth said, “Do you recall the old lord Drescott speaking of John Newton?”
“The slaver turned vicar. Indeed so.” “He was a particular friend of Wilberforce. I remember William once recounting something Newton had said in describing himself. Let me see if I can recall it. ‘John Newton. Liar, thief, cheat, murderer, enemy of Christ and His kingdom, sailing round and round the endless liquid void.’ ” Gareth turned to Falconer and offered the final word. “ ‘Saved.’”
Falconer breathed long and hard, wishing for all he lacked. Proper words, wisdom, a better way with people.
Their carriage pulled up in front of Parliament and halted before a pair of vaulted gates. Guards in august uniforms and bearskin hats flanked the entrance. A tide of dark-suited men came and went. Falconer asked both man and God, “What would you have me do?”
“Speak whatever our Lord puts on your heart,” Gareth replied. “We can ask no more of anyone.”
Lord Sedgwick and Henry Carlyle were both there to greet them, bedecked in robes of power and importance. Sedgwick inquired over Gareth’s health and offered Falconer his hand. Falconer tried to respond, but he was too overwhelmed by the place and his role.
The gentlemen led them across an interior courtyard. The gr
eat of this land were gathered in tight clusters, talking of weighty matters and flinging their berobed arms about. But most paused in their discussions to watch Falconer’s passage. Many, he saw, held copies of Gareth and Erica’s pamphlet. He tried to keep his gaze steady upon the way ahead, to remain steadfast upon his objective.
They entered a chamber of colored stone, one that rose up in the manner of a chapel to a peaked roof very far overhead. Three great chandeliers, shaped like wheels of gleaming copper, burned with countless candles. Narrow windows of stained glass cast colorful glows upon the floor stones. The noisy hall was full of people.
A man approached, stunted and twisted such that his ermine-draped robes brushed along the floor. “What’s this? You dare bring such filth into these chambers?”
Gareth replied quietly, “Despite your best efforts to the contrary, we are here and safe and ready to confront the enemy.”
“Lies!” the man barked with a high-pitched fury. “Lies and accusations! Where is your proof? Where is your evidence? I’ll tell you the answer to that. You have none!”
The chamber gradually had grown still. Falconer saw all eyes upon them now. Some were sympathetic, others defiant, many simply guarded.
“If that is so,” Gareth replied, “why are you so terrified to have him speak?”
“Aye,” a voice called out. “Let them have their say!”
“Why should I, eh? Tell me that!” The dark little man shot his words out to the chamber at large. “Why should I, a member of the lords’ chamber, permit this vermin to attack my good name?”
“Because we discussed it and agreed, Lord Bartholomew!”
Falconer could not halt the hiss that escaped him. “You.”
Simon Bartholomew blanched at the menace in Falconer’s face. “Stay away from me!”
“You are an attacker of children, a destroyer of souls,” Falconer said.
He was not even aware that he had moved, save for the fact that Bartholomew was now scrambling backwards across the floor. “Guards! Call the guards and have this vile liar removed!”
Falconer was not armed, which was good. He used the only weapons he had at his disposal, which were his voice and his right arm. He pointed at the man and used the roar trained to reach the highest mizzen in the fiercest storm. “In the name of Jesus, I rebuke you! For the lies you have perpetrated, for the suffering you have caused, for all the evil you seek to do, I rebuke you in Christ’s name!”
The man struggled as though choked by the hand that did not quite reach him. He managed to gasp, “The man is clearly insane.”
“If you will not accept his word, then take mine!” Lord Sedgwick lumbered forward. “I stand today as living witness to this man’s accusations! Just as is described in the pamphlet you hold, I heard young lord Drescott confess to Bartholomew’s complicity in the attempted murder of innocents!”
“And I as well,” Carlyle added. “Every word you hear is true. Every word.”
“Lies,” the banker protested, but more feebly now.
“Let them have their say,” another said, and this time his words were met with a chorus of assents.
“Insane.” The banker continued to back away until his twisted form was lost behind a cluster of other robed figures.
“Speak, then,” another said, more quietly this time.
Gareth took a single step forward. “I had the honor of meeting with our dear friend William Wilberforce this morning. He sends all of you his blessings and these words.” He unfolded a paper drawn from his pocket, and read, “ ‘This is not about accusation. This is about shame. My shame. I take Parliament’s shame upon myself for the terrible trafficking in human tragedy. These are the desperate facts. We are all guilty.’ ”
He lowered the page. “He said something more. ‘Here I am, packed and sealed and ready for the eternal post. There are but two things I know. That I am a great sinner. And Christ is the great Savior.’ ”
Gareth stepped back and signaled to Falconer.
“My name is John Falconer,” he said, stepping forward. “When I was twenty-five, I inherited my first command from a dead man’s hands. The ship was called Sweetwater, after the merchant prince’s family, but the crew had a different name for her. We ferried slaves to the West Indies. The ship sailed under the American flag, but the merchant family is British, and our buyers were all within the British islands.”
“Impossible!” a voice cried from the rear of the crowded hall. “Trafficking in slaves has been outlawed for more than twenty years!”
“And yet the law is powerless against such transgressions!” This from Gareth Powers. “Until the industry itself is abolished, such secret crimes will continue! We have but one choice! One!”
Falconer waited for silence. When the assembly was listening once more, he continued. “The night I became master of my first vessel, there was a ferocious squall. A nighttime gale that came out of nowhere, as happens sometimes in the trade wind latitudes. A wave came out of nowhere as well, one so high I could not see its crest. It swept the skipper and six seamen overboard so fast we heard but a single scream. The rest of us clung to whatever was nearest and fought to clear the wreckage. We had lost a mast to the wave as well. The fouled rigging tied us to this sea anchor and threatened to send us all to the ocean floor. When the rigging was cleared and mast gone, the crew wanted to drop our cargo overboard as well. Our human cargo. The poor wretched men and women and children chained within our holds.
“When I refused to let the crew dump the human cargo into the sea and lighten the ship, some of the crew rebelled. I received this scar you see that night, fighting for my life.” Falconer touched the jagged line on the side of his face. “Thankfully, the storm abated before the crew could take over the ship. We rigged the spare mast and sailed on.”
He could hear his voice echoing off the high ceiling, as though other men now joined with him. A deep rumbling chorus of guilt. “Do not think that I fought for these slaves because I was concerned for their welfare. I fought because it was my duty as skipper to save the merchant’s cargo. That was my only goal.
“I can still remember the day I realized just how cold and callous my poor soul had become. I sat in a harbor tavern, surrounded by men I classed as mates. I cared for nothing and no one. That day I watched a former shipmate walk down the line of my newly delivered cargo, giving them water. Another man carried the barrel for him, a man I knew as a thief and a murderer. The two of them stopped by each of these slaves, gave them water, and prayed for them.
“I sat and listened as my so-called mates jeered these two men and their act of kindness. And I knew that I was dead. No matter what strength my limbs might have held or that I was called skipper and captain and wore braid on my sleeves. I was dead. My soul was forfeited. Dead and buried in eternal ashes and shame.
“I went in search of that former shipmate. To this day I cannot tell you why. But I did. His name was Felix, and he serves now as curate of a church in Trinidad. Or he does if Simon Bartholomew and his minions have not murdered him as they did the man who carried the water barrel.” He waited for the murmuring to die down, then continued, “I remain as I was, a sinner in need of salvation. I am nothing more than a fighter, with no idea of great matters such as this. But Felix needed help to gather information against the slavers. And I did as he asked. How could I not, after what he had done for me?”
John Falconer pointed at the pamphlets dangling from many hands. “I confess to you these things so that you will know the manner of sinner who stands before you today. But I tell you this. What you see written upon those pages are facts. And I add my voice to Mr. Wilberforce’s. To pretend that the slave trade is ended is a lie. You tell yourself this lie so you can sleep well at night. But know this. In truth, so long as you hold the power to change things and do nothing, we are all shipmates, you and I. We have all worked together to inflict further suffering upon innocent souls.”
The Parliamentary debate over the abolition of s
lavery throughout the British empire stretched on and on. Sedgwick and Carlyle came repeatedly to the Wilberforce home. Sedgwick was most eager to spend time with Falconer and endeavored to explain the nation’s politics.
They were seated in the front parlor, where Serafina had served them tea before settling down in a high-backed chair by the glowing fire. The English seasons were a mystery to Falconer. Here it was scarcely an inch into autumn and already the day could be called wintry. Falconer could tell Sedgwick was enamored with Serafina. The man was not unattractive, in a very large and ponderous sort of way. He was probably only a year or so older than Falconer, and the power of his position, and his obvious wealth, gave him a stately air.
Falconer assumed that in time he might become impervious to the way other men looked at Serafina. That is, if he was granted more time in her company. He observed the passage of days with an odd mixture of impatience and dread. Whatever Parliament decided, his work here was almost done. He did not know how much longer he would remain in England. But it was a matter of days. And the thought of leaving Serafina behind felt as heavy as an illness.
Sedgwick set down his cup. “Might I say, sir, your testimony before the members of Parliament carried astonishing force. I truly believe it may well have tipped the balance.”
“I can hardly see that it mattered at all, what with this constant delay.”
“This is not delay, sir. Not at all. A proper Parliamentary delay is a matter of years, not days. No, the august body is nearly galloping ahead. Strange as it may seem to you, this is breakneck pace for Parliament.”
“Strange is the word I certainly would have chosen.”
“We have waited forty years for this chance, my good man. Forty years! The Tories have controlled Parliament since the wars with America. But the Whigs hold the majority now. Change is what the people want—change and reform. And change is what we shall bring!”
Falconer glanced to where Serafina observed the gentleman with alert and intelligent eyes. He was struck by the painful realization that they would make a fine couple. Serafina was just the sort of exotic and lovely companion that could elevate Sedgwick’s political standing. She was born for such a role. Not for me. Never for me.
Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Page 28
