“Why, dear, of course he is.”
Mr. Gallagher replaced his spectacles and looked serious. “You always have a home with us, you know that.”
Again my throat tightened. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry. Surgeon’s mates don’t cry.
“Yes, of course you do, dear.” Mrs. Gallagher enfolded me in her ample arms until talc tickled my nose and I sneezed.
I pulled away. “Well, thank you. Both of you. You—you’ve been most kind to me. I’ll not forget.” My voice cracked. “I’ll bring you something from … from wherever I’m going. I’ll …”
Mrs. Gallagher tried to smile and failed. “Do you promise, absolutely promise, to come home and see us again, my little English boy?”
“I promise.”
Mr. Gallagher pressed five dollars into my hand. “Keep it. You’ve earned it, you have.”
I thanked them both again and picked up my canvas bag, filled with clothes, books, toothbrush, tooth powder, comb, and such. I opened the door to the shop. Bells jangled. The morning air was cool.
“Well, goodbye, then,” I said, looking back once more.
“Goodbye, dear. Mind your manners, now. Study your catechism.”
“Farewell, Philip.”
And off I went, my brogans clipping the banquette, off to my new life, my new adventure.
I didn’t like the look of Uncle’s crew.
They appeared hard-eyed and shifty-looking. When I mentioned this to Uncle, he laughed and tousled my hair, saying there was no need to worry, that he knew what he was doing. He had sailed with some of these men before and knew them to be crack sailors. I still had my doubts but bit my tongue, not wanting to sound like a child.
The ship, however, was glorious. The Formidable was its name. Uncle said it was a Baltimore clipper and had been a privateer just a few years back, from 1812 to 1814, during America’s Second War of Independence. Even knowing little about ships, I could tell she was sleek and fast, her two green masts rakish and daring. The deck was flush and clean. Her hull was painted black, and she’d two carronades plus twelve long guns, six on either side, each capable of throwing 9-pound shot, according to Uncle.
“But who will we be firing at?” I asked as I followed him about the brig. The sun was just peeping over the horizon, casting the sky in purple hues. A light breeze carried the scent of frying fish, brine, and damp timbers. “The war ended in 1814.”
“All in good time, my lad, I’ll answer your questions all in good time. For now we must attend to matters at hand.” Uncle made his way past one of the inboard boats, turned upside down; past sailors going about their business; and stopped midships, where a man was digging through a box filled with what appeared to be medicines. “Jonas?”
The man stood and turned abruptly. I stepped back. He was old—sixty, maybe—with protruding eyes. The whites of his eyes weren’t white at all, but yellow. Truth was, all of him seemed to be yellow. Pockmarks pitted his sallow skin. Yellowish gray hair hung in lank strings.
Uncle laughed and clasped the man’s hand in both his own, pumping it vigorously. “Jonas Drinkwater, my good friend, well met once again!”
“Captain Towne,” replied Jonas, fixing him with a yellow eye. “Good to see you.”
“Wasn’t sure if you were still alive, you looking like something that died in the gutter.” Uncle winked at Jonas, then at me, before pushing me forward. “Jonas, this is my nephew, Philip Higgins. It’s well you look surprised! Didn’t think a scoundrel like me had a family, eh? Ha! Not only is he family, he’s a sharp fellow. Been to school and everything. Proud to call him my own. And you’ll be happy to know he’ll be your assistant and charge during the voyage.” And with a thunderous clap on each of our backs and a hearty laugh, Uncle left me with Jonas.
I felt color flush my cheeks and dropped my gaze to the deck, realizing I’d been staring. This man was a surgeon? I was to work under this man for the entire voyage? I felt a shiver of misgiving, but quickly dismissed it. Uncle knows what he’s doing, I told myself.
Jonas stepped about me, inspecting me from head to foot. “How old are you, boy?”
“Fourteen. And a half.”
“You look no more than eleven. Maybe twelve. And what do you know about medicine?”
“I—I can fill simple prescriptions, sir—”
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. What I mean is, sir, I can mix compounds and—”
“How many grains make one scruple?”
“Wh-what?”
“You heard me. How many grains make one scruple?”
“Twenty.”
“How many scruples to one dram?”
“Three.”
He grunted. “What’s paregoric used for?”
“It quiets the cough and calms the nerves.”
“Dosage?”
“A tablespoon for adults.”
Again he grunted. “You’ll do. Now organize this medicine chest so I can find what I need.”
When he turned away, I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “Dr.—Dr. Drinkwater?”
“Name’s Jonas.”
“Please, Jonas, where are we off to? Where’s the ship headed?”
He turned back. A frown creased his yellow face. “Didn’t the captain tell you?”
“No.”
Then Jonas erupted with laughter, suddenly not looking so frightening or ugly anymore. He thumped me on the back as had Uncle, smiling a great, yellow-toothed smile, but said nothing.
Jonas and I shared a whitewashed cabin next to the captain’s quarters. There were two bunks—berths, in sailor’s language—stacked against one wall, with only three by seven feet square of walking space. Lodged between the bunks and the wall opposite was a desk piled with medical books. Across from the desk was a cupboard for our belongings. To my relief, Jonas agreed to allow me a candle at night, but only after I promised him my every share of grog for the entire voyage.
That first night, gazing at the candle flame, a solitary glow, I reviewed the events of the day, concluding, My uncle’s the handsomest man and I’m the luckiest lad in all the world. I think we’ll get along pleasantly. I then recited my prayers and fell asleep.
Once the ship was in a smart condition and watertight, her hatches fitted with sound and doubled tarpaulins, all things well secured and caulked, the Formidable left New Orleans on the eighth day of January, 1821, in fine weather, the wind at the southwest. Five days later we crossed the bar at the mouth of the Mississippi, with the wind from the north-northeast, and set a course to sea.
There were forty-six of us, including the captain. There were the gunner and his mates, who looked after the ammunition and the long guns. There was the cook, whose galley was on the forward deck, and who could be heard mumbling to himself even over a high wind. There were two mates; then there were the steward, the cabin boy, the bo’sun, the carpenter, the sailmaster, and the cooper, and all the other sailors.
Everyone had tasks to do. As for me, once the medicine chest was organized, I didn’t have much in the way of regular tasks and wondered why Uncle felt he needed both a surgeon and a surgeon’s mate on a voyage where there wasn’t much of anything happening. I was so delighted, though, to finally be with Uncle after all these years that if he needed both a surgeon and a surgeon’s mate, that was jolly fine with me. It just meant Uncle wanted me near him.
As it was, I followed him about like a puppy, asking endless questions. After all, he was family. My only family.
“Uncle, weren’t you lonely for your family when you first left for sea?”
“Uncle, have you ever fallen overboard?”
“Uncle, have you ever been to India?”
“Uncle, will you ever get married, do you think?”
“Uncle, can you teach me navigation?”
“Uncle, where are we off to?”
“Uncle, have you ever gone to school?”
“Uncle, do you think I might make a good sea
captain someday?”
Some questions he answered; some made him crack with laughter and clap me on the back (nearly jarring my teeth loose), repeating, “All in good time, my lad, all in good time.” Finally, perhaps in an effort to batten my hatches, he agreed to teach me navigation.
So, beginning on our fifth day at sea, each day at noon we stood on the quarterdeck and took the sighting with a sextant. Then we went below and consulted the almanac and studied the charts, plotting our course from one penciled X to the next.
“So we’re headed to Havana, on Spanish Cuba,” I said one day, tracing our route with my finger. I stood with my legs braced as the Formidable rolled and tossed through the ocean swells. Above, it was a fine, vigorous day, and my hair smelled of wind. “If the weather holds true, we should arrive sometime tomorrow.”
Uncle’s blue eyes glinted. “Aye, you’re a sharp lad.”
“Then we’re returning home?”
Uncle gave me a hard look, seeming to weigh something in his mind, then shrugged. “I suppose it’s time you knew.” He produced another chart and unrolled it atop the first, leaning over the table and caressing the chart with his hand. I stood next to him, hearing the breath whistling through his nostrils, looking to where he pointed. “After Havana, we’re headed to Africa.”
Africa … I peered at the African continent, my breath catching with the promise of adventure. “What’s in Africa besides jungles?”
At this, Uncle straightened and placed a strong, square hand on my shoulder. His expression was solemn. “Philip, lad, have you ever wanted to be rich?”
I remembered my vow to never be hungry again. And since arriving in New Orleans, I’d kept that vow. Money was the answer. Money and family. “Yes, I want to be rich.” More than anything, I realized.
Uncle’s lips curled up in a smile. “There’s black gold in Africa.”
“Black gold?”
“Slaves, lad. Slaves,” he hissed.
The word hung in the air. Visible, touchable, vibrating like a plucked string. My scalp prickled and I became aware of Uncle’s excitement. It flowed warmly from his hand, through my shoulder, into my being. As if he wanted my approval. Me, little Philip Arthur Higgins, onetime orphan and ward of the parish workhouse. And in that moment I’d have given my approval to anything—taking half the world, even.
Uncle’s eyes met mine.
I smiled. “Yes, Uncle. That would be quite nice, I think.”
The house was set among the palm trees, a wide veranda stretching across the front, shady and inviting. As we climbed the last step onto the varnished expanse, the door opened and a man emerged. “Ah! Captain Towne!” he said in a broad American accent. “At last you’ve arrived!” Dressed in loose white cotton pantaloons and a linen shirt, he was a red-faced fellow of enormous girth. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his clothing. He dabbed himself with a handkerchief.
“Emmanuel Fitch! Jolly good to see you again,” said Uncle, slipping his rattan cane under his arm and shaking Mr. Fitch’s hand.
Jonas muttered a pleasantry while I stood by awkwardly.
“Emmanuel, may I introduce my nephew, Philip,” said Uncle.
The man’s hands were hot and sticky. I said, “Good to meet you, sir,” and he ordered cool drinks all about.
Presently we sat upon the rattan chairs on the veranda, surrounded by slaves who served drinks and aired us with fans. My first sight of slaves had been on the day I’d arrived in New Orleans. Since then I’d seen many members of the dusky-hued race, most especially when I’d fill a prescription for their masters. As I relaxed on the veranda, I admitted to myself that these slaves both frightened and fascinated me. They were well formed, silent, padding about on their bare feet and serving all our wishes before we even asked. I wondered what they thought of their fat, sweating master; of my swarthy, earringed uncle; of pop-eyed, yellow-faced Jonas; and of me, pale little Philip.
Truthfully, I’d never given slavery much thought (being much too busy with my own life), believing only that rich people owned slaves, while poor people didn’t.
For the next hour, Mr. Fitch and Uncle discussed business. The loading of the equipment. The goods and trinkets for trade—colored cottons, glazed beads, brass bracelets, tobacco, bells, kegs of gunpowder and rum. The necessary provisions and supplies. Where the best cargoes were to be found. Places to avoid—African rivers where there was bound to be trouble of one kind or another. The top bargaining price allowed per slave. The expected date of return…
Flies droned about my sweet drink. The breeze from the bird-feather fan ruffled my hair, cooling my sweating scalp. The slave boy operating the fan shifted from one foot to the other. My eyelids drooped.
“Do you like him?”
It took me a moment to realize someone was talking to me. It was Mr. Fitch. “I said, do you like him?”
I cleared my throat. “Like whom?”
“The slave boy. His name’s Pea Soup. He’s your age.”
Well formed and muscular, Pea Soup was staring at the floor, his face impassive, still moving the fan. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. I like him very much,” I said, wondering what Mr. Fitch meant by this.
“Would you like to have him?”
The astonishment must’ve shown in my face, because he chuckled, along with Jonas, whose now-familiar laugh sounded like the braying of a donkey. Uncle watched me sharply.
“I’m serious, young fellow,” continued Mr. Fitch, once he’d caught his breath. “If you like him, you can have him. Consider him my gift to you, in gratefulness for your uncle’s friendship and business acumen.”
“Well, I—”
“Go ahead,” urged Uncle. “It’s a valued gift. You should be honored.”
“Then I accept,” I said, breaking into a smile, touched by Mr. Fitch’s generosity. Surely he was a very rich man! “And I am honored.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Fitch. “Fresh drinks all around!”
And soon we were clinking our glasses together, toasting one another’s health. I glanced at Pea Soup, wondering if he understood what had just occurred—that he belonged to me now. But he still stared at the same place on the floor, his face unchanged, moving the fan.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Throughout that long voyage across the Atlantic from Cuba to Africa, I liked to stand at the bow, with spray dashing over the cutwater, our sails full and tight, and imagine the fortunes I’d gather.
I was no longer the poor orphan boy without a halfpenny to his name and with just a mouthful of food in his belly, wearing only rags. I no longer toiled eighteen hours a day doing someone else’s bidding, coughing up moss dust while someone else became rich and laid a cane across my back.
No, I was Master Philip Arthur Higgins now. I had a family and owned a personal servant. I was on my way to ship a cargo of slaves and become rich. And for the first time in my life, I’d receive payment for my own labor, sail the world as I fancied, and answer to no one but myself. Me, Philip Arthur Higgins, master, speculator, and entrepreneur, just like my uncle.
I imagined the day I’d return to the Gallaghers for a visit, telling tales of my adventures. I’d leave them with so much gold that they’d never have to work again, sorry they’d ever doubted Uncle.
It took me a few days to teach Pea Soup his duties. At first I tried telling him, but he just stared at his feet, his face blank. Without a common language, I had to act out his duties, from laundering my clothes to serving my meals to cleaning my quarters. Jonas laughed, telling me I looked a fool. That it wasn’t difficult to tell who was master and who was slave with Pea Soup just standing there while I scrubbed my dirty pants.
“You could whip him, you know,” suggested Billy Dorsett, the cabin boy.
I’d been showing Pea Soup how to replace the candle in my lantern when Billy appeared at the door of my cabin. I didn’t like Billy. About a year younger than I, he seemed a dull boy—dull wits, dull eyes, dull hair—and he had a
vulgar fascination with bodily excretions and emissions.
“Everybody knows a darkie don’t do what he’s supposed to without a whipping to show him how,” he was saying. “Everybody knows that.”
“I’ll do things my own way, thank you very much.” I hoped that the snap to my voice would dismiss Billy, but he lingered in the doorway. I returned to my task. “Anyhow, Pea Soup, you take a candle, like so—I’ve a ready supply in the drawer at all times—then you open the lantern door; there’s a latch here, mind you don’t pinch your fingers—”
Billy said, “He’s probably stupid, that’s why he don’t do what you tell him.”
I frowned at him. “And how would you know?”
He shrugged and started to pick at a place in the wall where the whitewash was peeling. “I could teach him if you want, if you don’t got time.”
“Thank you, but no,” I said with a sigh, thinking, Bother it all! Pea Soup was staring at the floor, his arms dangling limply. With Billy here, my hopes of teaching Pea Soup to keep a candle lighted in my lantern at all times were dashed. “Well,” I said to Pea Soup, speaking English to him, though I knew he couldn’t understand, “looks like we’re finished. Let’s go on deck, where the air is fresher.”
Billy moved into my room as I pushed past him, Pea Soup padding softly behind me. I turned. “Clear off, Billy.”
He looked at me blankly, as if he couldn’t fathom why I didn’t want him in my quarters, riffling through my belongings. Pulling him by the sleeve into the passageway, I shut my door. “Stay out of my cabin.”
I let go of him then, but to my irritation Billy followed us to the upper deck and pestered me for the next half hour. I finally dismissed Pea Soup and locked myself in my cabin, away from Billy Dorsett.
Despite Billy’s pestering and despite Jonas’ braying, soon Pea Soup was performing his duties. And though Pea Soup moved like a tortoise, not finding a reason to hurry for anything, I couldn’t complain. Even the little he accomplished left me more time to study my catechism, study medicine with Jonas, and learn navigation from Uncle.
Voyage of Midnight Page 3