The Triumph of Grace (8 page)

Y
ou, you, you, you, and you . . . All of you in first watch," Archie Rhodes ordered as he made his way down the line of men alongside the deck rail. "You too, India Boy. And you and you . . ."

Young Jackie was in the first watch, and Collie Steele, the pock-scarred boy whose hammock hung on the other side of Grace's, too. Starting with the wrinkled thirty-eight-yearold seaman beyond Collie, the rest of the line was in second watch.

Grace understood the routine. It was the same as on the
Willow.
The ship's work was divided into six four-hour watches, each measured by half-hourly rings of the ship's bell. One bell marked the start of a watch, then each thirty minutes another bell was added until eight bells sounded the last watch segment.Half an hour after that, one bell signaled the start of the next watch.

While half the crew worked, the other half was free to sleep or do whatever they wanted. On Captain Hallam's orders, each night first one watch and then the other would stand two consecutive watches. That meant many hours of work with no rest for half the crew, but it also meant that on alternating nights, the men would have a chance for a fair night's sleep.

Each watch had an officer whose job it was to assign duties and to oversee the men under him. No complaints, no arguments.At least, none that reached the officers' ears. James Talbot was the officer assigned to the first watch.

"You! Get yourself to the galley," Mister Talbot ordered Jackie.

Jackie set to work under the cook, a tough old seaman by the name of Paddy Clemmons. Paddy wielded his metal serving spoon like a weapon. It was Jackie's responsibility to see that the livestock was fed and their cages kept clean. He also scrubbed the pots and mopped the galley deck. Actually, Jackie was to do anything the cook ordered him to do.

"India Boy! You work with Bart."

James Talbot motioned Grace toward a short, thick Scotsman who oversaw the ship's maintenance.

"T'will make a man o' ye, young laddie," Bart said to Grace as he administered a sharp slap to her painfully bound back.

Grace's first job was to work alongside a crew of half a dozen men who hauled lines.

Pile up ropes strewn across the deck?
Grace thought.
I can do that!

The job took hours. The entire time, Grace stood in a line with the others and heaved the heavy ropes in time to a rhymed cadence Bart roared out. Before the job was half done, the muscles in her arms and shoulders screamed with pain.

"Ashok! Put yer lazy shoulder to the work!" Bart scolded.

Grace tried with all her might, but she could not keep up with the others.

"Half yer finger be missin'," Bart called. "Hold tight to that line or ye'll lose the next one, too!"

What did Bart know of Tungo's knife? What
could
he know of what she had suffered at Zulina fortress? What could any of them know? How Grace wished she were at work in the galley with Jackie! Mop floors and scrub pans—those things she understood very well.

When at long last the final line was tightly coiled and stacked in place, Grace slumped down on the deck. Several other sailors also groaned in relief.

"Is it a long journey to America?" Grace asked no one in particular.

"Why? Ye gots somewhere's else to be, does ye?" retorted a sailor with only two visible teeth.

"Could be five weeks," said a tall black-haired man called Abner. "If God smiles on us."

"Five weeks!" Grace exclaimed in happy surprise. "It took twice as long to come from Af . . . from India."

"The trade winds is why," said Abner. "We takes the Southern Crossing to the Canaries and catches the trade winds. From there we can sail downhill all the way to the Caribbean."

"Pshaw! Rubbish, that, nothin' but pure rubbish!" growled the sailor with two teeth. "Superstition of the sea is wot it be."

Abner laughed. "Except that it works. And you can't deny it, either, Mickey. Go east, and it be five weeks between London and Charleston. Go west, and it takes half again that long. No trade winds, eh? Well then, you explain the difference to me."

"Luck," mumbled Mickey. "Dumb luck is all it be. Jist dumb luck and nothin' more."

"Men of the sea don't take easy to new ideas," Abner told Grace with a conspiratorial chuckle.

By the end of the first day, it was clear which men were real sailors and which were new recruits. Experienced sailors worked quickly and efficiently, and their muscles stood out on their sun-darkened arms and legs like knotted ropes.Unfortunately for Captain Hallam, experienced sailors numbered few on his crew. Most of his men stumbled and fumbled and groaned under the workload. Pale and malnourished, their scrawny limbs quivered and strained. Even worse, many a man was of a mind to avoid work whenever and however possible.It was up to Mister Talbot to see that those in the first watch were not afforded that luxury.

At the sound of eight bells, eager anticipation swept through the weary men of the first watch. Half an hour later, when one bell sounded the watch change, James Talbot ordered, "To the galley with you!"

Following the lead of those ahead of her, Grace headed for the galley, where she picked up a small wooden plank and spoon, and a tin cup. She settled herself on a bench between Collie and a red-haired man she hadn't noticed before. Paddy Clemmons toted a heavy pot between the benches. He plopped a ladleful of stew with vegetables and a bit of meat on each outstretched plank. Jackie followed close behind the cook and put a biscuit on each man's plate.

"Enjoy the stew!" Abner called out. "Won't be many meals like this one comin' yer way!"

One ravenous sailor after another scooped up his portion of stew and scraped his plank clean. When the men could scrape no more, they picked up their planks and licked off the last of the juices.

Grace thought back to her days on the
Willow,
to the endless meals of porridge made of dried peas, always accompanied by biscuits dried hard as rocks.

"Indian, is ye?" the red-haired sailor demanded of Grace.

"Yes," Grace replied. She did her best to emphasize her accent. "Ashok. That's my name."

"What's a Indian doin' in England?" asked the red-haired sailor.

"Well . . . I—" Grace swallowed hard.

"Goin' to America to find your family, is you?"

"Yes," Grace said eagerly. But since she couldn't very well explain that her husband had been forced aboard a slave ship in Africa, she added, "My . . . my brother. To find my brother."

"You surely be needin' God's help for that task," the redhaired sailor remarked. "That country be filled with Indians, so I hears tell. Some livin' in tents. Some waitin' to slice the scalp off a white man's head."

Grace stared. "Indians? In America?"

"It be the truth," the red-haired sailor said. "And they not the onliest barbarians in that country, neither. Africans, too.Hundreds and thousands of them. But the Africans all be slaves, so they be busy lookin' for a way to kill their masters and get to England."

"You been to America before, has you, Lucas?" Abner asked.

"No, but I hear tell the stories. America be a wild wilderness of a country, that's for sure."

"Best wait to see for yerself before you spread your tales," Abner advised.

"Some things I don't need to see in order to know," Lucas insisted. "Indians be Indians. Africans be Africans. All of 'em be wild people. That much I know."

Grace got up and stumbled away from the others. What she saw before her was not a crew of sailors refreshing themselves from a day's work. What she saw was wretched white men beating her people . . . slavers dashing her child against the rocks. . . . Cabeto locked in chains and forced onto a slave ship. What she saw was an awful reminder of the horrors of Zulina slave fortress.

Who are the wild people?
she wanted to scream at the laughing men who licked their dinner planks clean. "
You tell me.
Which ones are they?"

With its sails full to the wind, the
Ocean Steed
glided across the smooth, open sea.

Grace moved to the ladder and climbed down to the crew berth deck below. She ducked her head and made her way through the maze of swaying hammocks until she found her own. As she climbed onto it, she became aware of stifled sobs from the hammock next to her.

"Jackie?" she said softly. "What is it?"

Immediately the crying stopped.

"Jackie?"

The boy turned his back to her. So Grace lay down on her own hammock and cried beside him.

M
uco!" Benjamin Stevens called.

He paused at the door, but only long enough to stomp the African dust off his boots. The sun was low in the sky, yet still no supper fragrance bubbled from the outdoor kitchen behind the house. In fact, only the thinnest wisp of smoke puffed up from where a cook fire should be burning strong.

Benjamin grunted his annoyance and threw the front door open. Inside, all was quiet—silent and severe. The same as it had been every other day since he first came to Africa nigh unto twenty-five years earlier.

Benjamin had built this house with his own two hands.He had made it sturdy and practical, large enough to shelter a family. Those were the days when his heart was still light and his head still filled with dreams of endless possibilities.Back before it occurred to him that his wife, Henrietta, and daughter, Charlotte, might choose to stay in England rather than live with him in Africa. In those bygone days, he never could have imagined that his family would consider themselves generous to grant him one obligatory month of their time every other year, and even that would be cause for weary sighs and complaints.

Now both Henrietta and Charlotte were lost to him forever.Benjamin Stevens was alone.

"Hello? Muco?" Benjamin called, his impatience growing."Muco! Where do you hide yourself?"

Benjamin sighed with disgust. What was the use of having a house slave if she was not available to tend to his needs? What was the use of owning her if she were not around to keep his house and possessions safe from prowlers and thieves?

His possessions! Gripped by a sudden rush of apprehension, Benjamin hurried through the house to the back room, where he kept his collection of finely crafted gold jewelry and golden images of animals. He almost wept with relief when he saw that the padlock was still on the door, completely undisturbed.

Well, and why shouldn't it be? He kept the only key on a leather lace around his neck.

As Benjamin reached for the key, from the corner of his eye he caught sight of the slave. She seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Or had she stood in the shadows and watched him the entire time? How he hated the way she crept about on those silent feet of hers! How he hated calling his slave by an African name.

"Bow your head when you stand before me, slave!" Benjamin Stevens snapped.

Muco did not. Her expression remained distant and remote, her back straight and unbent.

The house slave, Muco, had been a gift to him from Princess Lingongo. "You deserve her," Lingongo had told him in beautiful tones that seemed to extend a great compliment. "A slave to keep your kitchen fire hot and your clothes clean. A slave to serve you when you are at home and keep your house secure when you are away."

The gift had pleased Benjamin enormously. Imagine! The great Princess Lingongo had made a gift to him from her own household staff! And yet, with every day that passed, the gift of Muco weighed more heavily on Benjamin's mind. The slave simply would not respect him. And her silent defiance rankled him no end.

"Where is my supper?" Benjamin Stevens demanded of his slave.

"Letters arrived for you . . . sir," Muco said. "Lingongo's man carried them here today. Should I bring them to you?"

"Of course bring them to me!" Benjamin responded in exasperation. "How else shall I read what they say?"

Muco shuffled away in silence and returned with a leather packet, which she handed to Benjamin.

"Your name is no longer Muco," Benjamin informed his slave. "All my slaves carry names from the Bible, and you will be no different. From now on you will be Rhoda."

Without even glancing his way, the slave moved on outside to stoke up the fire.

Benjamin Stevens took the packet to the corner of the great room that he called his office and sat down at his writing table. From the drawer he took the magnifying glass he now needed in order to read and eagerly removed a stack of half a dozen letters from the packet.

The first letter was from the London hospital where his wife was confined with consumption. Her condition continued to deteriorate more rapidly than expected, the letter stated. On the advice of her doctor, it was strongly recommended that Benjamin make all due haste to be by her side one last time.

Poor Henrietta. She had always made it her business to take care of everything and everybody, whether they wanted her care or not. Now there was no one to care for her. Things could have been so different. If she had only come to Africa with him. . . . Of course, there was illness everywhere. Certainly Africa was rife with disease. If she were here, though, Benjamin would be at her side. But in London? No. Not in London.

With a sigh, Benjamin carefully laid the letter aside and set his beautifully carved gold tortoise on top of it.

That tortoise was the most prized item in his gold collection.While the other pieces remained locked away, this one he kept on display for all to see. Princess Lingongo had selected it from the royal collection and had given it to him to seal their business partnership. Certainly he had gold pieces of more value. But this gold tortoise marked his move to a life of prestige and wealth. Whenever he pined over what he'd had to give up to get here, he need only look at the gold tortoise to remember all he had gained.

Benjamin Stevens shuffled through the remainder of the stack of mail: Notices from vendors . . . Statements from several slave ships . . . Invoices for business purchases. Nothing from Charlotte, though. Nothing from his daughter.

Slowly, Benjamin unfolded the final document, a letter of several pages written in the familiar, overly pretentious hand of Jasper Hathaway. As usual, Mister Hathaway began with business matters: accounting issues that concerned the administration of Zulina slave house ("I must demand fiscal restraint of you, my good man! Restraint, that is the watchword!"), questions of exchange ("Do encourage the natives there to accept payment in beads and bolts of cloth rather than insisting on muskets and gunpowder. I am certain you understand that we must strive to retain control of the weapons"), matters that pertained to slave requirements ("Encourage the ship captains to accept more young women of breeding age, for those are sorely needed in the islands. Women can work the fields almost as well as men, but they can also be used to produce a new crop of captive-born slaves for us").

With business matters addressed, Mister Hathaway moved with relish to the gossip of the day. It must have brought Jasper Hathaway immense pleasure to compose the letter's gossip, for it all circled around Grace Winslow:

"His Lordship skillfully crafted evidence against Grace Winslow, and he would have succeeded in his goal of seeing her hanged as a thief from the gallows had it not been for your own daughter, who had the audacity to approach His Lordship the Judge himself and so to prevail against her own husband.His Lordship Reginald Witherham is most displeased with Lady Charlotte, as you can well imagine. Most extremely displeased, I should say. I must alert you, good sir, of your own precarious position, you being her father. For on Lady Charlotte's behalf, Lord Reginald is not at all pleased with you, either. You may thank God Almighty that you are far away from London or I should not want to vouch for your safety."

Benjamin Stevens slammed the letter down on his writing table. He kicked his way out of the chair and clear through to the cooking oven out back.

"When will my dinner be ready?" he demanded.

The slave looked up and studied the sky. "Not before dark," she replied.

Benjamin headed back through the house and out the front door. He walked clear down to the ocean, where he could linger alone along the quiet shore. Where he could watch the sun hang low over the water and listen to the waves lap at the shore as the seabirds called to one another. The sights and sounds of Africa as it settled down for the night, that was what soothed his irritated mind.

While Benjamin worried much about the safety of the gold pieces he so energetically collected, he worried not at all about the security of his private correspondence. That, he assured himself, was the positive side of having no one about but one foolish old slave woman. He could lock up his valuables and keep them away from her. The slave's own dull mind would lock out all else.

But there was much Benjamin Stevens did not comprehend about his house slave. He did not understand how deeply she loved Grace Winslow, and had ever since Grace was a small child. He did not recognize that whatever he called her, she would always be Grace's Mama Muco, and she would risk anything for news of her Grace. And Benjamin Steven never imagined that long ago Grace had taught this slave how to read.

As soon as the front door closed, Muco hurried in through the back door and headed straight for Benjamin Stevens's writing table in the corner of the great room. She settled herself in her master's chair just as though she herself was mistress of the house, and she snatched up the letter from Mister Hathaway. Slowly and carefully she read every word out loud.

When she finished reading, Mama Muco cried out, "Lord, God, hold on to my Grace. Please, Jesus, keep her safe!"

Benjamin Stevens arrived back home to the fragrance of his supper bubbling on the outside fire and the sight of his house slave on her knees beside his desk.

"If I didn't know you to be a heathen, I would swear you were praying to God," Benjamin said. "I never will understand you, old woman. Now get yourself up and set out my supper."