Voyage of Midnight

by Michele Torrey

  Finally, hating my bed, hating my cabin, hating the stench of nighttime, I arose and took the lantern from its peg. I’d decided I’d go on deck and clear my head.

  But outside my cabin door, confronted with the closed door of my uncle’s cabin, which stood beside mine, a compulsion overtook me. Hesitating just a moment, I entered his cabin, again without knocking, lantern in hand.

  I don’t know what I’d expected to find. Him sitting at his chart table, perhaps, plotting the next day’s course. Him pacing, stewing over the day’s events. Him reading his Book of Common Prayer, praying for strength to endure the remainder of the voyage.

  But what I’d not expected was to see him sleeping like a babe.

  He lay crossways on his bed, shirt unbuttoned to his waist. His mouth was open. Gold teeth caught the shimmering light of the lantern. He was snoring softly. I saw beneath his curls that he didn’t remove his earrings at night. His boots lay haphazardly on the floor next to the bed.

  He looks as if he hasn’t a care in the world, I thought.

  And as I gazed at my uncle, the scales fell from my eyes and I knew. For the first time since I’d met my uncle at the Magford workhouse four years previous, I saw him clearly, saw him for what he was. Surrounded by cries and wailing so piteous it’d melt the heart of the devil himself, my uncle slept peacefully.

  You care for no one but yourself, Uncle. No one. Not even for me, your only flesh and blood.

  You never sent money for my welfare. You left me to rot at the workhouse.

  You killed six slaves today as heartlessly as you’d swat a fly.

  A horrible, seething wretchedness crawled through me, and in that moment, born of every beating I’d ever endured, born of the cries of suffering that shrieked in my ears, I despised my uncle.

  Within two days, life aboard the Formidable returned to its usual appearance.

  The four dead crew members—including Teags, Mackerel, and Numbly—followed in Jonas’ wake, sewn into their hammocks, weighted with cannonballs. Dry-eyed, I said nothing when their bodies plunged one by one into the briny deep.

  And when Uncle asked me to continue with our daily lessons in navigation (which had been temporarily suspended, owing to my duties as surgeon), I silently complied. “Once you master navigation, you’ll be worth double to me,” he said jovially, seeming to have construed my begging for Ikoro’s life as a childish moment, easily forgotten. “Besides, with Numbly gone now, I’m relying on you should anything happen to me.”

  The sextant, charts, parallel rulers, compass, and all things navigational were hateful objects to me now. I wished only for the Formidable to speed on her way under a full press of sail and for the voyage to end. I resolved that upon arriving in New Orleans, I would go my own way and never see Uncle again.

  I’d have thought my uncle would’ve noticed my reticence and suspect that my feelings toward him had changed considerably. But he noticed nothing. This was another confirmation of my uncle’s selfishness, of his inability to see beyond his own nose, beyond his own needs and wants.

  My face had swelled from its injury. My nose felt tight; it was reddened, sore, and clogged. My eyes had blackened, as if I’d been punched with the old one-two. Uncle just laughed when he saw me, telling me how many times he’d broken his own nose and that it bloody well hurt, didn’t it?

  Because of the rebellion, the slaves were kept under guard in the hold. Not even the women and children were allowed on deck. And so it would remain until Uncle changed his mind. Of course it was all the talk among the crew just how the slaves had managed the revolt. They’d been found with all sorts of weapons hidden on their persons—iron bolts, scalpels, mallets, and such. The crew speculated as to how the slaves had obtained such materials, some mentioning Pea Soup as the only possible explanation. After all, he’d been confined in the hold following the battle with the American warship and had found his father, Ikoro. Doubtless, from that moment on father and son had conspired to rebel. Once free to roam the ship again, Pea Soup had taken the opportunity to bring weapons to the slaves.

  “Someone should string that boy up, use the same noose as for his father,” said Calvin one day at our noon mess. His mouth was full of biscuit and salt beef, and he spat crumbs as he talked. “Chop him into bits afterwards. It’s all because of him Mackerel’s dead.”

  Upon hearing his words, and with a ferocity that surprised me, I hurled my wooden plate across the deck, lunged across the space between us, and pointed my knife at Calvin’s throat. Everyone stared at me as if I were a lunatic. A mashed chunk of salt beef plopped from Calvin’s mouth. My voice sounded cold and dead, even to me. “If anyone so much as touches Pea Soup, the next time you beg for medicine I’ll administer arsenic instead of quinine. Don’t think I won’t. My uncle’s agreed that it’s my responsibility to punish my own slave, and trusts me to do as I see fit. He’s my slave, and you’ll leave him be.”

  No one spoke as I stamped off. I was trembling with rage, hating the ease with which Calvin had talked of chopping Pea Soup to bits. As I stepped down the companionway, someone moved at the bottom step. Down and away, as if he’d just slipped down the steps ahead of me. “Pea Soup, is that you?”

  Pea Soup turned and looked up, his face showing no more expression than if he’d been watching grass grow. I wondered if he’d heard the conversation.

  For a moment, we said nothing. I realized then that I was wrong about his expression. Grief lined his face. Shadows circled his eyes. I’d been blind not to see it. Blind like Uncle. “I—I’m sorry about your father. Truly I am. My father died too. Before I was born.”

  He turned away then, disappearing into the shadows so quickly that had I not just seen and spoken to him face to face, I’d have doubted anyone else had been there.

  It appeared that my little demonstration at the mess had been effective, for after this day no one, not even Uncle, mentioned Pea Soup. He was, however, constantly in my thoughts. Even days after the rebellion, I was baffled as to why Pea Soup had spared my life. Had not only spared my life, but seemed intent upon preserving it. Why? Even Ikoro had not harmed me when he’d had the chance. After stabbing Teags, he could have dispatched me in a second, yet he’d left me behind, alive and well—a white boy, and an enemy. Again, why? It was possible that he considered me to be no threat, but that still didn’t explain Pea Soup’s change of heart.

  Aside from our encounter in the companionway, I’d seen little of Pea Soup since the revolt. Truth was, between my time in the infirmary, navigation, and language studies, my every hour was occupied. Though there was evidence that Pea Soup was keeping up with his chores, I felt unsettled, haunted, as if something were wrong—something unsaid, undone—but I didn’t know what.

  One day there was a timid knock upon the infirmary door.

  “Who is it?” I barked, praying it wasn’t Billy the Vermin.

  When no one answered and yet there came another knock, I strode to the door and yanked it open, ready to vent my spleen.

  It was Pea Soup.

  He stood straight as a spear, taller than me by five or so inches. One eye was gummed shut, the other pink and swollen. His pink eye gazed at me, unabashed.

  I stared, mouth open like a dimwit, before recovering myself, remembering that I was the surgeon and that someone here was in need of medical attention. I said, “Come in,” and stepped aside.

  Pea Soup entered, his pink eye taking in the claustrophobic infirmary. The smoky darkness. The berths lining the hull, each filled with a sleeping shape. The basket of oakum dolls and braided rope. The medicine chest. The piles of dirty linen. The variety of medical instruments lying about. The pitcher of water and bucket of waste. My own filthy apron, covered with bodily fluids of every description.

  “Lie down.” I motioned to the examination table, wondering if I was making a mistake. Could I really trust Pea Soup? Perhaps he’d come to kill me. To finish what he’d started and then neglected. After all, it was he who’d broken my nose. />
  As with all the patients who’d suffered from the eye disease, I rinsed his eyes and treated them with mucilage of sassafras. Pea Soup never budged. Never stopped watching me with his pink eye. It was rather unnerving.

  When I finished, he sat up, wiped his face with the towel I gave him, and then left without another glance back.

  Well, I thought, sitting down and allowing myself a smile, I suppose that’s better than being thrown to the sharks.

  The baby was delivered in the dead of night, shortly after eight bells.

  Billy awakened me to tell me one of the women was thought to be in labor and was in the infirmary. By the time I’d shaken the sleep from me, nervously skimmed the birthing section in one of Jonas’ medical books, and arranged the necessary towels and medical instruments, the baby had been delivered into my hands with a hearty screech from the mother and hardly a word or action from me.

  I cradled the squalling, slippery infant. It was pathetically skinny, seeming to lack the energy to cry. “It’s a girl,” I told the mother in her language. Tears welling in her eyes, the mother reached out her arms and took the child to her breast.

  Within the hour, I’d taken care of the mother, washed the baby, and cleaned up the mess. And all the while a disturbing thought kept surfacing: Even the babe’s first breath is drawn in bondage. I tried to convince myself that it was for her own good, that we were doing the baby a favor by taking her to civilization, but instead a melancholy stole over me, as if I’d awakened and found myself forty years older.

  I’d dozed off, sitting upright in the chair, when someone burst into the infirmary.

  It was Uncle, obviously having just roused himself from bed, his hair looking as if he’d caught it in a moss picker. “Where is it?”

  I blinked with sleep. “Where’s what?”

  “The baby. Billy told me—” And before he could finish his sentence, he saw the baby, curled in the crook of the mother’s arm. He strode over and, without a by-your-leave, snatched the infant up. The mother’s eyes flew open. She shrieked and reached out for her baby. The baby squalled. Kicked.

  I rose from my chair, mouth dry, heart pounding, with a sudden feeling of dread. “Wait, please—”

  “I told you to bring me the baby, did I not?” Uncle scowled at me, looking displeased. Looking like the day he’d ordered Ikoro executed along with five other slaves.

  “Yes, but I thought it could wait till—”

  “Bloody hell! Shut her up, would you?” Uncle motioned to the mother. “She’s going to burst my eardrums with her racket!” And without another word to me, he left the infirmary, taking the baby with him.

  I rushed after him, pulse pounding in my ears.

  My God, what’s he planning to do?

  He moved quickly, up the companionway and onto the upper deck before I’d even reached the first step. “Wait! Please, wait!” Up I clambered, my breath ragged as if I’d just run a mile.

  The full moon cast a silver path along the waters. The sails hummed in the brisk wind. Uncle was striding to the rail. And while I watched, while my heart lodged in my throat, hesitating between beats, he reached the rail and flung the infant overboard.

  “No!” I screeched, running to him, almost pitching over the gunwale. “My God, what’ve you done?”

  Uncle caught my arm.

  “What’ve you done?” I repeated. I could see nothing. Just the path of moonlight shimmering on the water. “We must save it! We must do something!” I was crying, the words bursting from my mouth like pus from a wound. I think I would’ve jumped overboard had Uncle’s grip not tightened. He yanked my arm so hard that my head whipped back.

  “Stop it! Stop this rubbish, this—this blood-gushing nonsense, before I beat it out of you!” he bellowed.

  His hand, like an iron trap. Me, like an animal, struggling to get away. His eyes, now midnight black, narrowed.

  Stop this blood-gushing nonsense, before I beat it out of you!

  No, Master Crump! No!

  I fought against him.

  He cursed. Raised his hand to strike me.

  No! Please, have mercy!

  My bones turned to mush. I sank against the bulwarks. Rough wood scraped my cheek. Hard, damp. I slid down until I lay in a crumpled heap on the deck, curled into a ball.

  Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me.

  The man said, “What did you think, Nephew? That I’d turn the ship into a nursery? Grow up.” He grunted with disgust and strode away.

  I sat in the infirmary. It stank of bowels. Of birth. Of blood.

  I stared at the hull. Its timbers stacked one on top the other. There was a knothole in one of them. A black beetle crawled along the edge of the knothole.

  Except for the occasional groan, except for the never-ending gurgle of the deep on the other side of the hull, the infirmary was silent. The mother had stopped crying hours ago. She’d bled to death. I’d held her in my arms, begged God to save her. But her life oozed away until her eyes rolled back in her head.

  My gaze fell to my hands. Dark, caked with blood. Rivers of black trailing between my fingers to my elbows. Blood crusted under the nails. I moved my fingers. They were stiff, sticky.

  We’re doing them a favor … saving their lives, in a way.… They’ll be better off and thank us.… It’s a necessary evil, and can’t be helped.…

  No, Uncle. It’s not a necessary evil.

  It’s purely evil.

  You’ve filled my ears with lies.

  You’ve covered my hands with blood.

  And I can bear it no longer.

  Uncle thumped me on the back when I emerged into the early sun and thrust a plate of food into my hands, saying, “Missed your morning mess, my lad.”

  I could hardly stand the sight of him, knowing him for a murderer, knowing everything he’d told me was a lie. But I took my meal, leaning over the rail, saying nothing.

  Uncle tilted his head back and breathed deeply, lips curled in a smile, as if life didn’t get any better than this. “Grand day, eh what? Wind’s strong, ship’s sound—ah, couldn’t be finer! What do you look so glum for? Cheer up, lad, we’re soon to be rich! Ha! Did I ever tell you about my first voyage? No? Made two thousand British pounds, even as a cabin boy …”

  And Uncle regaled me with his adventures while I picked at my food, sickened, wishing I were deaf, for his voice now set my teeth on edge. I looked away, out over the empty waters, half wishing I could follow the baby overboard.

  Previous to the executions and the murder of the infant, I’d already witnessed much suffering—the paltry food rations, the horrifying conditions in the hold, the whipping of slaves—but all of it, all of it, I’d believed was a necessary means toward an end that was ultimately good. And much can be endured if one believes that all will, one day, be well. But now I knew differently. To kill helpless slaves, helpless babies, wasn’t a means to an end that was ultimately good, a favor that we bestowed upon them out of a desire to better their state in life. No, it was murder. And for what? To make my uncle, and people like my uncle, rich.

  Slavery was not a better life than the one the slaves had left behind in Africa. And even if it was, who was I, who was Uncle, or anyone, to decide for them? They were human beings, with intelligence and God-given choice.

  Yes, the slave trade was evil. Anyone who spoke contrary to such a fact was lying. This I knew, just as surely as I knew I’d two arms, two legs, and one head. The thought of becoming a wealthy man based upon such a lie filled me with abhorrence. I’d no more be a party to such abuse than I’d become a workhouse master and make money off the sweat of poor, starving orphans.

  Uncle put an arm about my shoulder, but I shrugged out of his grasp.

  “Ah, you’ll get used to it. It’s as I told you. You must harden yourself to it. You’re too sensitive. Must thicken that skin of yours! Ha!” And here he turned, shouted an order to the helmsman, and strode aft, leaving me with my mouth full, chewing a piece of salt beef over and over agai
n, unable to swallow. I leaned over and spat it into the sea.

  Six men stood in my cabin, watching me. Black eyes, black faces. They held spears. Said nothing, just watched me sleep. They want something … but what? What? I tried to awaken, but couldn’t. Someone knocked on the door.

  I pried a babe from its mother’s arms. She was screaming, but I took it anyhow. I ran to the upper deck and tossed it overboard, weeping at the same time, trying to claw over the gunwale to rescue it, but Master Crump held me back, beating me across my shoulders and head.

  “Foolish boy. Mind your catechism and grow up.”

  Again someone knocked on the door.

  I ran through the streets, naked. Uncle saw me through the tavern doorway, took his cigar from his mouth, and laughed. And laughed. His roars of laughter filled my ears. He pounded the table with his fist, tears streaming from his eyes, pointing at me as if I were a twopenny show.

  A voice penetrated the heavy curtain of sleep. “Philip!”

  I opened my eyes. I was in my cabin aboard the Formidable. The candle was burning. Waves of sleep clung to me. Two days had passed since the death of the infant and her mother, but it seemed a hundred years ago, a lifetime.

  “Philip!”

  It was Billy the Vermin.

  “Bugger and blast, don’t you ever go away?”

  “Captain wants to see you.”

  “What hour is it?”

  “Six bells. He wants to see you now. I think you’re in trouble.”

  Once I’d sloshed cold water on my face and dressed, I found Uncle pacing the quarterdeck. He saw me coming and flicked his cigar over the bulwarks into the sea.

  “Finished with your beauty sleep?” Uncle’s voice held no trace of humor, and I saw a storm brewing on his brow.

  “Told you,” whispered Billy. He’d followed me, no doubt anxious to see me in trouble.