Voyage of Midnight (22 page)

The sky was clear, the air stiflingly hot. Steam curled up from the deck. The crew was a filthy and haggard lot, their clothing sweat-stained and damp. Their eyeballs covered with a cloudy film, they stared blindly at nothing. Billy the Vermin plucked something from inside his nose and ate it.

Uncle continued. “Men, we’ve been dealt a harsh blow, I judge. But God wouldn’t have preserved us had he not intended for us to accomplish the task entrusted to us from the beginning. We’ve been divinely commissioned.” His voice rose, as if he were delivering a fiery sermon. “And just as Paul the Apostle obeyed the laws of the Lord by returning the runaway slave Onesimus to his master, we too must obey. And for our deliverance and continued safety, I give praise to the Almighty, who governs the heavens and the seas. Could I see to read a prayer of thanksgiving, I’d do so.”

“Amen,” murmured several of the men.

I looked away, sickened. My uncle’s capacity to twist words—to procure the blessing of everyone, even God Almighty, for his purely evil purposes—amazed me.

How wrong you are, Uncle
.

“But what can we do?” asked the gunner. “Our sails have been torn to shreds and we’re sailing as blind as we ever were.”

“Again we must trust to Providence to deliver us,” replied Uncle. “You’re born sailors. Nimble as cats in trees, you are. And while the wind is mild and the weather friendly, we’ll bend new sails to the yards.”

“Blind?”
someone asked incredulously. “You expect us to climb up there
blind?
Even cats can see!”

“Trust God to preserve you. Mr. McGuire will oversee.”

Now was my time. My moment of performance, a performance that Oji and I had planned carefully. “Uncle!” I cried.

He peered sightlessly in my direction. “Philip? Is that you?”

“Aye, Uncle. I believe that—” I gasped, and paused for effect. “Yes, yes indeed, it’s true! I believe I’m recovering my sight!”

Everyone gasped.

Surprise splashed across my uncle’s face, as if he’d been dashed with a bucket of water.

I continued my charade. “Just now I saw a glimmer of light, and even as I speak it grows stronger. Yes, I’m certain of it now. The light grows stronger and clearer!”

“Is it—is it true?” Uncle pushed through the crowd, arms groping, until I reached out and took hold of his sleeve, pulling him in front of me.

“See, Uncle? I saw you coming toward me. I can see.
I can see!
You’re wearing a white shirt with gray trousers, and you’ve forgotten your hat.”

Uncle’s face crumpled. He sobbed and embraced me. I endured the damp smelliness of his embrace, surprised to realize that a part of me still loved my uncle. Finally he pulled away, holding me by the shoulders as if to inspect me with his sightless, rotting eyes. “You’ll guide us,” he pronounced, his voice clogged with emotion. “Praise God that I took care of you for all those years so you could succor me in my hour of greatest need. Praise God that I’d the foresight to teach you navigation. You’ll guide us home. You’ll sing out the compass readings. I’ll tell you how we must trim the sails, and you’ll guide us through the rigging. You’ll restore the well-being of the ship and of the stock.”

“Aye,” I replied. “You can trust me to do what’s right and good.”

“That’s my Philip,” said Uncle.

And then the crew surrounded me, as if they’d never said a disrespectful word or played a mean trick on me—little Philip Arthur Higgins, surgeon aboard the
Formidable
. They clapped me on the back, congratulated me, and called me a true Son o’ Neptune while tears streamed from their sightless eyes.

Yes, go ahead and cry
, I thought.
For Oji and me and every African soul aboard—we’re headed to Africa, and you’re taking us there
.

“So? Where are we?” It was the next day, and Uncle drummed his fingers on the rail, waiting for me to finish my navigational reading. Uncle didn’t know it, but I’d already taken a reading the day before. This day was overcast, making a reading impossible, but Uncle, with his rotting eye, didn’t guess the truth, for it simply didn’t occur to him that I would deliberately deceive him.

“Halfway between Freetown and Barbuda, I’d say” was my false response.

Actually, we were dangerously close to the coast of South America, off the eastern tip of Brazil. My spirits plummeted the first time I took a reading, knowing that in another day or so, had we kept upon our same course of directionless meandering, we’d have washed ashore.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Not now.

Trying to stay calm, though my palms sweated and my stomach was clenched, I hastened the bending of new sails to the yards with my crew of blind men, ordering the new course as soon as the mainsail was set. “Bearing west-nor’west,” I told them, ordering the wheel turned and the yard adjusted so that the compass actually read east-northeast.

I planned to head for the nearest portion of the African coast instead of the river Bonny. If all went well, we’d make landfall in a bit over a month’s time. To head for Brazil or the Caribbean
was certain death for the slaves aboard, as Uncle would jettison them to collect his insurance money. To head for Africa was life, freedom—God willing.

Truth was, our chance of returning to Africa was slim as a reed, as was the chance of my ever seeing the Gallaghers again. But I now knew I could never look them in the face, call them Mother and Father, love them as dearly as they deserved, were I not to make every effort to bring the Africans home to their own villages and families first. Oddly enough, upon our decision to return to Africa, I felt closer to the Gallaghers than ever before, as if somehow my words, my vow, had traveled across the waters and entered the chemist’s shop on the Rue du Dauphine in the French Quarter, where they heard it and approved.

“Are you certain your bearing is correct?” Uncle asked me.

“Trust me. The nor’east trades will compensate for our northerly heading.”

He smiled then, gold teeth flashing, and I briefly glimpsed the hale and hearty chap he used to be. “Like I’ve always told you, Philip, my lad, you’re fashioned from the same mold. A chip of the same block.”

“Aye, sir.”

Uncle believed we were headed west-northwest, and that soon the northeast trades would blow from our starboard. In actuality, we were headed east-northeast, and the southeast trade winds would soon blow from our starboard. A blind man wouldn’t know the difference. Only the rising sun on Uncle’s face would tell him of my deception. I prayed to God hourly, every second, to keep the sky clouded, my uncle deluded, my shipmates blinded, and to speed us on our way. If any of the crew gained their sight before my plans could be carried to fruition, all would be lost.

Oji and I had discussed the merits of an outright rebellion—how easy it’d be for the now 193 remaining male slaves to overcome and imprison 33 blind sailors. But we needed the sailors, blind as they were. We needed them to operate the sails and rigging, for though I was their eyes and could direct them, I knew little about seamanship and would’ve been helpless without their knowledge and without Uncle beside me, telling me what to do next.

“But once we arrive home, I will have your uncle’s head,” said Oji, his voice hard and angry. “It is my right.”

I could only imagine the hatred smoldering in Oji’s heart for my uncle, the killer of his father. “Oji, please …”

“I will have
all
their heads.” And he stumbled away, his back straight, looking more like Ikoro every day.

Because of the return of my sight, it was no longer necessary for me to conduct my duties as surgeon in secret. Everyone knew that I had patients in the infirmary, but as I was the only one with sight, they couldn’t know that over a dozen slaves were recovering from broken limbs, nor could they know that one of my patients was an infant.

Oji became my assistant. He stirred the medicines, dosed the patients, bathed them—all under my supervision. He spent much time soothing the infant, taking it gently from its mother when she slept and holding it as if he were the proud father. “His name is Onwuha. It means ‘Death, may you let this child live.’ ”

It was a mercy that baby Onwuha rarely cried, only making quiet, mewling sounds upon occasion. As a precaution, we’d loosened some of the boards beneath the mother’s bunk and lined the empty space with soft cloth. It was here we’d hide him should it become necessary.

But I’d much more on my mind than the well-being of a single baby. The well-being of every person aboard the
Formidable
was still my responsibility.

Of grave concern was the declining state of our food stores.

Already we’d been at sea for approximately eleven weeks, yet we’d anticipated a homeward voyage of no more than nine weeks (although we’d taken extra provisions, as well-seasoned sailors do). Again I feared, judging from Uncle’s previous conversation with McGuire, that Uncle would jettison the cargo, believing food was wasted upon blind, and therefore useless, slaves. I decided, then, to use Uncle’s greed to our advantage.

“Uncle!” I said brightly one evening, rushing inside his cabin as if I’d wonderful, exciting news.

Uncle sat up in bed, rumpled and dazed, as if he couldn’t remember where he was.

“I was down in the hold just now, and I’ve made the most jolly discovery!”

“What? What?” cried Uncle.

“Most of the slaves have recovered their sight!” In actuality, the number was only three.

Uncle rose from his bed. He stumbled to his desk and laid hold of his Book of Common Prayer. He crossed himself. His shoulders heaved. “Praise be to the Almighty,” he whispered. “This cargo may yet be saved.”

Uncle’s relief was a mixed blessing. Though he wouldn’t likely jettison any of the slaves now, believing that in just a couple of weeks he’d be a wealthy man, his “godly” mission accomplished, we were still desperately short on food. A half a yam a day and a meager handful of rice and beans were all that was allowed each slave; less was allotted for children. I fired up the galley once a day for Cookie, helping him until the rice and beans were cooked through, the yams roasted.

The provisions for the crew were equally reduced, and they complained bitterly of hunger. Indeed, it looked impossible that their emaciated forms could climb the shrouds, and I feared that there would come a day when they’d lack the strength or the will to do so.

I ate no more than anyone else. My stomach shriveled with pain. My limbs wobbled with weakness, and if I moved too smartly my sight dimmed and my knees buckled. Memories of the workhouse and cold, watery gruel flooded back, and I realized I’d forsaken my vow to never be hungry again. I hated hunger.

God, when will this be over?
I prayed constantly.
I’m tired and hungry. And what happens when we reach the coast of Africa? What then? Release the captives into the jungles to shift for themselves?
I’d no answers, only prayers.

I was plagued too by the terrible fear that one of the crew would recover his sight, as I had.

One glance at the compass would reveal the truth of my deception.

One glance at the slaves in the hold would reveal the truth of their condition.

It was a fear that seeped into my dreams like poison, startling me awake, making my heart pound. Sweating, I beseeched God to help me again and again, in prayers that seemed to go no farther than the walls of my cabin.

O
ne and a half weeks into our voyage toward the African continent, we sprang a leak.

Cookie had been sent down to the lower hold with Billy to fetch yams. What Cookie told us when he returned shocked us all. “There’s seawater in the hold. Lots of it. Up to my waist. Ruined much of the food, it has.”

You’d have thought Cookie had just thrown a shovelful of dirt upon each of our caskets. Roach wailed, saying he didn’t want to drown; he’d a fear of drowning. Billy told him how your life flashes before your eyes and how when you sink for the third time, you’re a goner. Uncle said nothing, just stared off with his one clouded eye, as if he
could see beyond the horizon. McGuire ordered the men to the pumps.

In the lower hold I drew a chalk line at the water level. After a day of pumping, I returned to see if the chalk line was above or below the water level. If above, we might live. If below, unless the leak was mended and despite all our pumping, the
Formidable
would slowly fill with water until she became too heavy, and would sink.

I crawled out of the companionway onto the deck, my body trembling with fatigue and my chest heaving with even this simple exertion. The crew was waiting to hear what I’d found. Whether or not I was to give them a death sentence.

“The line is above the water level,” I said.

They sighed as if with one body and went back to the pumps, day and night. Some of the healthier male slaves were brought out of the upper hold to aid with the pumping.

Because of the spoilage caused by the leak, food rations were cut yet again.

Working the pumps on our meager diet sapped a man’s energy, as if he’d run a mile at full tilt. I took my turn but could scarcely work the pumps. I panted like a cart horse on a July day, my muscles no stronger than string. Roach pushed me aside and took my place, saying that little Philip the surgeon shouldn’t man the pumps. That I was too important, and very busy.