Voyage of Midnight
Read Voyage of Midnight Online
Authors: Michele Torrey
OYAGE OF
M
IDNIGHT
Being the true story of my, Philip
Arthur Higgins’, misfortunate childhood
,
of my subsequent voyage from Africa
with a cargo of slaves, of the frightful
sufferings endured during that middle passage
,
and of what happened afterward
.
As told to
MICHELE TORREY
Once again, a hearty thank-you goes to Ron Wanttaja, my fellow writer and Washingtonian, for his assistance with all things nautical. His keen sensibilities and sharp “weather eye” kept me from going too far adrift (or so he thinks!). Also, my heartfelt appreciation goes to Susan Marlow of Washington and Erick Cordero of Costa Rica for their help with the Spanish.
¡Gracias!
As in all my previous books, if there are any remaining errors or exaggerations, whether nautical or otherwise, they remain my responsibility alone, as to write a story of this nature it is often necessary to perform a balancing act between “fact” and “fiction.”
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Michele Torrey
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS
, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Torrey, Michele.
Voyage of midnight / Michele Torrey. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
SUMMARY
: In the early nineteenth century, when his sea-captain uncle invites him to assist the ship’s surgeon on his next voyage, orphaned fourteen-and-a-half-year-old Philip, eager to be with family, accepts, only to find out that his uncle is a slave trader.
eISBN: 978-0-307-77119-3
[1. Orphans—Fiction. 2. Physicians—Fiction. 3. Slave trade—Fiction.
4. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 5. Uncles—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.T645725Voo 2006
[Fic]—dc22 2005036269
v3.1
To my father
,
who sowed the seeds
of equalíty
,
justice
,
and human rights
in my heart
And to those
who have died
without a voice
Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch, like me!
I once was lost but now am found
,
was blind but now I see!
—John Newton,
former slave trader, 1779
I
never saw my father. He was a seafaring man and died before I was born, lost overboard in the middle of an Atlantic gale.
My mother and I lived together for four and a half years at our cottage in Magford, England, before she fell ill and breathed her last, leaving me with nothing but her cold hand pressed against my cheek and the pound of rain against the shutters.
Thus, in the year 1811, I became an orphan and a ward of the parish.
I needn’t relate in detail my life in the Magford workhouse—the watery gruel and hard bread; the scowling face and long cane of Master Crump; the nights, the years, spent shivering beneath my moth-eaten blanket—no, for it’s the story of many an orphan and so holds no uniqueness other than that it happened to me. It’s enough to say that I was miserable, praying each night to God Almighty that I might join my father and mother in heaven. For what, indeed, was the purpose of living if I was only to suffer?
When I reached the age of ten, I was sent to work for a cushion maker. I’d have thought it impossible for my suffering to increase, but increase it did. Already I was a sickly lad, pale, scrawny, no larger than a child of seven or eight years old. I was placed in a confined, hot shed where it was my task to pick the sticks from piled moss before feeding it into enormous, clattery, steam-powered rollers with teeth that looked as if they’d fancy nothing better than to devour the arm of an orphan. Clouds of dust constantly swirled about the room, into my nostrils, my mouth, my lungs. My eyes swelled and smarted, red and itchy. Each evening, I was let off from work to eat my supper of black bread and thin beer, after which I curled up in the shed loft on a pile of dirty cushions stuffed with moss.
Oh, Father in heaven
, I’d ask, coughing, already knowing the answer,
does nobody love me? Me, Philip Arthur Higgins, who once had a mother who kissed his cheek and a father who promised to return from the sea to see his first son born? Does nobody love me anymore?
After endless months of working for the cushion maker, one day my hand caught in the roller. Pain raced up my arm, and I shrieked and fainted as the rollers mercifully shuddered to a halt.
“Philip Higgins? Come, lad, wake up. Look sharp, I say. There’s someone here to see you.”
I opened my eyes, my hand smarting, my body raging with fever. I lay in a bed in the workhouse infirmary. Master Crump towered over me, scowling, reeking of camphor. He poked my ribs with his cane. Once he saw I’d awakened, he stepped aside and another man took his place. A stranger whose blue eyes glittered with curiosity as he peered at me and I at him.
I blinked the sleep away and sat up.
He was handsome, about thirty years of age, swarthy, his skin weathered and darkened by the sun, his hair dark brown and curly. Two gold hoops dangled from his ears. His shirt was striped red and white, his trousers made of tarred canvas, wide-legged and chopped off just below the knee. Stockings covered his muscular calves, silver-buckled shoes his feet.
I made a pitiful object compared to him.
“I’m your uncle,” he growled, not unkindly. “Your mother’s elder brother. Isaac Smythe is my name.” He smiled then, his teeth glinting of gold, shining, to my eyes, like heaven’s glory.
I burst into tears.
I’m no longer alone. I’ve an uncle.… Dear God, an uncle …
“Come now, lad, stop your blubbering and dry your eyes.” Uncle produced a handkerchief and I blew heartily into it, wiping my eyes and staring at him as if he’d disappear were I to blink.
“But how … but why …?” The words twisted in my throat and I blubbered again, the pain of so many years of hardship making it impossible for me to speak.
Uncle laid a hand upon my shoulder, a strong hand that near collapsed me with its weight. “When I was your age, or a bit older perhaps, I ran away to sea. I’ve only just come home to find my
sister long dead, with her child living like a pauper.” He fell silent then while I blubbered on and my head clogged with happiness.
An uncle! An uncle!
When I finally composed myself enough to dry my eyes again, Uncle dropped a few halfpence into my uninjured hand. They clinked together, making a jolly sound. “See that you’re a good lad, Philip, and that you get well. Pray, try to be a man, and maybe you’ll find your tongue.”