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First Verse

In Service of the Coin

Orv

     Her voice was alien to their ears. How could the sun-blistered crew of such a vessel recognize this musical presence? It crept up from the grates, inching along the wormy planks, revitalizing the failing beams and warped spars of the aging Guineaman. The feeble yet uplifting melody worked its wiles on each wretched crewman as well. Here and there, a weary back straightened, restoring a long-absent inch to a man’s stature. Vacant eyes blinked. Rickety limbs rediscovered an almost human gait. Rum-pickled heads turned one way and another, searching for the source. To the crew’s astonishment, the notes were rising from belowdecks, from the cargo hold. The captain and sailors of the Lovesome Molly need not have been surprised, however, by the music emanating from the heart of their ship of trade. Manacles and chains are as nothing to hope. Hope rises. I had provided her that hope.

     “A good omen on a fine evening, eh captain?” I ventured, looking to the orange disc melting into the western waves.

     “A mockingbird among our crows,” Captain Tyce said, standing the deck as imposing as a mountain and equally chill. “She wastes sweet song on this ship of sorrows.”

     Despite the fact he was soon to realize a tidy sum from this enterprise, the captain appeared to be ruled by melancholy. Why this should be, I could not say. He maintained an orderly ship, administering no greater measure of flogging upon black flesh or screwing vises upon black fingers and toes than compliance dictated. Their wails of pain were certainly no worse than on other ships of the profession. True, the watch officer had skewered one black with his cutlass, but the man gave him no choice, really. It was the company’s loss, anyway. The maimed man was of no further value and had, therefore, been jettisoned overboard out of prudent necessity. Captain Tyce had no cause for recrimination.

     Our captain’s haunted nature may have had another source. His Society of Friends had disowned Tyce due to their narrow views on our trade. Now, Tyce looked to have nary a friend upon the Earth or in heaven. “Would that such music be the rule and not the…” His thoughts trailed off, turning to vapor in the evening air.

     A crewman idled by in a course uniform fashioned of moldering flax and jute. The girl’s voice had brought a simpleton’s bliss to the man’s face. The captain fixed the crewman with a stare, his dark, wind-tussled hair and bushy side whiskers framing a disapproving scowl. The unlucky sailor scurried off like a beetle to find some purpose useful to the ship. Our able Captain Bradford Quitlaw Tyce was not a man to be troubled by the need for comradery, or humor, or indulgence in romantic pursuits.

     The latest rotation of blacks was also taking the evening air as crewmen roughly shaved their heads as ordered. They were paired off in irons and so shuffled aimlessly about the deck, only a manageable number at any one time. The herding of these rascals was no great task; most were listless from dehydration. The routine included applying powders mixed with iron rust to heal or at least conceal the soars and rat bites on slick ebony flesh. From below, came the sour shock of vinegar used to mitigate the lower decks’ perpetual atmosphere of diarrhea, sweat, and vomit.

     These conditions were of no concern. What the quarters lacked in luxury they would more than make up for in opportunities for the survivors of the Middle Passage. My coin rung with pride at our audacious venture.

     Those souls who’d proven hardy enough to survive had earned a taste of their future. I turned to Tyce, and in my special voice I said, “Captain, I make a suggestion…”

     Forgive me.

     I suppose none of this makes sense without context. I struggle with telling stories. I love them so, yet sometimes get lost among the pretty words and pretty ideas. I focus on the attractive parts and forget to include the mundane bits.

     Let me do this properly.

     To begin at the beginning, I am Orv, Thaumaturge Third Order. Do not take that last bit –Third Order – as a failure on my part to seek promotion from my Lord Nick. I try. I strive with utmost diligence. And please do learn the word thaumaturge. I am assaulted by all sorts of lazy, wrong-minded invectives by people when they fail to realize I am more than a simple bent-left man with a yellow glint in his eye. Demon, they call me, but that carries such baggage. And while bête noire sounds fancy – French elevates everything – I assure you there’s no reason to dread me, night or day. And if you call me fiend, bugbear, hellhound, hobgoblin, or any of the rest, well, best to swig strong wine before you kiss your silver-haired mother with those lips!

     I’m as earnest as a sailor in a bawdy house: the word is thaumaturge. Think of me as a “performer of miracles” as the old books say. I help people in special ways to realize their best fate and fortune.

     We were three weeks and a handful of days out from our errand in the western coastal jungles of Africa, in the year of Lord Nick 1798. That’s the same as that other, pretentious Lord’s year. Nick generously allows that accounting of time to avoid confusing the humans.

     The Lovesome Molly plied the Middle Passage, eschewing stops in the Caribbean so as to bring needed labor directly to New England. At present, we carried three hundred plus eighty-eight persons. Lord Nick having fashioned me with a certain enlightenment, I often use the term “souls,” though the fine gentlemen of the home office in Newport preferred its own nomenclature. The company accounted those with Christian souls at thirty-eight persons, myself among them, though this notion never failed to make me titter.

     Our third mate, Mr. Lockwood, had found eternal glory during our voyage, owing to the elements; prominently the element of rum. We sewed him into his hammock, passing the final stitch through his nose to ensure he was dead, not merely dead drunk. Lashing on a holystone, we paused in reverent silence, raised one end of a long table, and slid Mr. Lockwood to his watery reward. We then returned the table below decks and took our midday meal round it. Thirty-seven able-bodied sailors remained.

     Thus, the manifest currently listed three hundred plus fifty “living blacks,” even while Newportonians read posted broadsides promising an inbound cargo of “males and females for labor and breeding.” Among this chattel, the tally had dropped thus far during the voyage by an acceptable number, sixty-one if my math served, owing to the usual causes.

     The below-deck residents of the Molly sang in the evenings, or on deck. Mostly they sang to each other, to reassure one another that whatever this life was, it was not permanent, or even terribly important. Theirs was a lament of ineffable sorrows. Meanwhile, she sang in simple syllables, not quite words. She sang of something unseen but trusted and cherished. Adaeze sang, and her song elevated every spirit aboard the vessel.

     Later that same mild eve that I spoke with the captain, I found myself chasing Bathsheba through the fetid bowels of the ship. Sheba was the greatest of the capitalists aboard, having grown her personal stock from one to legion during the first leg of our voyage. It remained a mystery who had sired such a clutch of yowling demons. Her litter included two of black like their mother, as if the lot had swum in iron gall ink, while the others were as varied as nature tolerated. No matter, the ship would fatten the lot with its ready supply of rats. This was all to the good, except the little ones had taken to using my hammock as their private seat of ease. Each night, I opened my canvas berth only to watch feline shite balls tumble to the deck, leaving their stain and stench behind.

     Having bid Captain Tyce good evening, I discovered the latest deposit. Grabbing a lantern from its peg, I made my way to the hawser locker, this being a favored lair of the clever she-brute. Stepping nimbly so as not to get myself caught up in the massive rope coils, I caught sight of two luminous yellow eyes not unlike my own. These blinked mockingly then vanished through a gap in the bulkhead. I gave chase, as I’m certain was Sheba’s plan, and this led me into the next compartment, one that contained the very trove of our voyage.

     The day’s heat had not yet dissipated. The thick, stagnant atmosphere of the lower compartments easily topped one hundred degrees. It reminded me of home. The ship’s guests, however, did not hail from such Plutonian shores, and this meant their ever-sweating bodies lingered at the edge of shock. Only the occasional ladle full of water and a shared salt lick pulled them back to the side of the living.

     Tail up, arse proud, Sheba strode through row upon row, stack upon stack of brown feet and wooly heads as black as she was. They were packed cheek by jowl, cuffed in pairs, two sets of feet out then two heads. The repetitive array continued farther than even I could see in the gloomy hold. The three-deep shelves served as bed, pantry, and front parlor for the men and women chained to the narrow slats. A few more souls filled what little free space there was between these minor mansions.

     I knew them well enough. I was in charge of feeding them twice daily. As I have said, the crew engaged in the endless and cumbersome task of hauling groups of these people up on deck for a precious hour to keep their muscles from atrophying. If profit was to be maximized, they must be fit of wind and limb when they strutted across the market stage.

     On Sundays, the blacks would receive a pious reading of verse ministered by John Dannish, the ship’s chief carpenter, boatswain, security officer, and makeshift pastor. He was a man any woman might covet, a fine young man of even temper and eyes that overpowered sailors and women alike with a fierce blue magnetism. This latter feature, along with his unnaturally generous stature, slender physique, and his general pallor caused the crew to indulge in midnight whispers. Some said Dannish was of the breed known as vampyres. He was not. I would have known.

     Indeed, Dannish possessed two very human passions. His private drive was of an earthy nature. Of course, I knew of these sexual peccadillos. His other passion lived within the staves and hoops of a barrel in his cabin. It held dozens of books handsomely bound in Cambridge panel leather. “One should never pass a day without reading the Good Book, but you should also value what wisdom you’ll find upon the pages of Marcus Aurelius and Hobbes’ Leviathan and my splendid volumes of poetry.” Though Dannish sermonized from the King James Bible, I was unclear which sect he claimed. Dannish referred to his books as gifts from the stars, having chosen each from a different port while chasing his fortunes guided by the night heavens.

     Dannish assigned himself one further post, that of ship’s librarian. I consumed his books as if they were lobsters served on platinum salvors. Though my duties kept me busy, I stole back time and found an unlikely perch in the rigging where I might feast my mind on print and page.

     “Knowledge gets under the skin, Mr. Orv. It takes a stalwart man to navigate such ever-expanding seas,” Dannish cautioned.

     I should have taken heed, for I soon found myself addicted to reading heady conceptualizations that redefined every individual I laid eyes on. It was a new and potent form of magic to me. Scientia potentia est, indeed! Poets have their insights. Such spells lay fixed in ink, and they bent my worldview. Fortuitously, as I have stated, I was fashioned bent, with coin for inner compass.

     Sheba lewdly flicked her tail twice, and I closed the gap between us only to see her bolt forward again. Unintentionally, I kicked and jostled a number of those persons sitting in the center aisle. None complained. Most had teetered on death’s precipice for weeks.

     The darkness split to reveal the familiar pattern of bodies I had come to expect on such visits. Her fellows in bondage had constellated around the most attractive force. They strained at their iron links and turned their eyes to Adaeze. She was, of course, holding a purring Sheba, who looked at me with naked disdain. Adaeze was stroking her coal-black fur with her tiny hand and singing her melody, having worked it out over the weeks of mindless bobbing and rolling on the ocean. The notes populated high octaves, not at all like the mournful hymns of her fellow captives.

     “The night gentleman speaks of being in Newport soon,” she said in a distant voice.

     Back at the blockade in Africa, the slavers had intentionally mixed her in with blacks gathered from different tribes. Her chainmates did not speak to her – they thought her mad. I knew better. I’d learned her tongue, another of my gifts.

     “Gulls fly past in great numbers now, and you can almost smell horse manure trailing behind the ladies’ fine carriages as they perambulate along the shore. Captain Tyce says in three, possibly four days’ time, we will make port.”

     Adaeze smiled. “Paradise. Progress. A new life.”

     Her words unsettled me. Or I should say her tone. The words were correct, but they drifted out as if unmoored to any true conviction. “Newport is the finest of the ports, far superior in opportunity to those to the south. You’ll be trained in a new vocation.”

     “Perhaps I’ll make pretty clothes like my aunties,” she said, pantomiming as a seamstress toiling with needle and thread. Her gestures were cheery but restricted by the iron cuffs binding her wrists. This clever device pivoted on a hinge to bring the twin bracelets together with an angled corner between and below. This the crew might attach to sturdy rope or chain links when it was time to lead the wearer about without protest. The ship’s industrious blacksmith clearly possessed the itch to commit art, and so rendered this service tool with a profile resembling a St. Valentine’s heart. Adaeze continued sewing the air, much to Sheba’s displeasure. The animal raised her flanks suggestively, preferring Adaeze use her fingers more productively by stroking her hide.

     I raised the lantern between Adaeze and myself as her eyes caught the guttering flame. Earthen works they were, a levee against an unseen flood that threatened to o’ersweep me and leave not a trace. She owned perhaps fifteen summers or so. Her features were fine and deeply affecting. She was fresh for the world to use and increase her value.

     “The whole crew notices when you sing.” In fact, Adaeze’s song worked its magic upon them. There is no greater tool nor keener weapon than the promise of a better to-morrow.

     “I sing to the home of my mother and my many aunties, that they may in turn call me back.” Adaeze lowered herself until her knees pressed the rough oak decking. Her chained hands took mine. “I plead to you. Take me home. I must return to my people to live and to one day die. My spirit will rage until the village widows feed me with grains and shower me in cowries and lay my bones safely in the soil of my ancestors.”

     An astonishing vow, this. Composure escaped me for a moment, and then I answered, “You’re what civilized people call a pagan. As such, you have no right to demand return passage. Your status might change if you profess an undivided love for the,” I stifled a titter, “one God. Big G. You’ll learn.”

     “Mr. God is hateful.”

     “I –” It hardly seemed my place to defend that other Lord.

     “Or else he has lost all reason. Perhaps, he no longer cares about the people he made. Perhaps Mr. God died and no one noticed.” She looked at the dark swelling under her manacles. “One thing I know: he is a poor father.”

     She was clearly upset. “A Lord,” I hazarded, careful not to reveal which one, “wishes you to prosper and spread your seed.” Her eyes narrowed. In a cat, that’s a sign of coming aggression, yet I pressed on, determined to set her spirit upon a brighter plane. “I’ve convinced Captain Tyce to order crew and blacks be given a special feast on the morrow.” The standard fare twice each day consisted of a modest portion of corn, beans and pepper – to ward off the white flux. Optimizing life well serves profit. “There’ll be salted beef and a spoonful or two of orange marmalade from the captain’s personal stores.” I leaned in close, too close as it turned out. Her scent, even through the miasma of human steerage, was one of youth and fecundity. It did not take a thaumaturge to sense she was coming into her own. I banished this from my thoughts before my little barb got its own ideas. “I’ve even convinced the quartermaster to throw in a half-pint of rum per man-of-chains.”

     “Girl-of-chains.” Adaeze closed her eyes as if in prayer.

     I whispered, “A girl of gold for those who will see.” As proof I showed her the pure golden band on my left hand, the precious circlet capturing the feeble light to shine with a delightfully unnatural brightness. I promised her that one day soon I would place a ring of its like upon her finger. “Here is how you must take this token.” So saying, I used my special voice to intoxicate this girl with priceless trivialities.

      We sat in the half-light. I listened to her song. I’ve witnessed more spring-times than a natural human, so I know the sound. It was here in all of its mystical patterns and bright green unfurlings; that promise, that light. I tried to join in, but my singing voice resembles a salt-crusted block pulling goat innards through its sheaves. Would that I could sing praise to the world in such a voice as hers.

     Sheba had had enough. She perked up her ears, second in sensitivity only to my own, and caught the sound of something fat skittering under the deck boards. She bolted.

     I ran a finger between the iron and Adaeze’s tender wrists. Her fine limbs were scarring over, perhaps in a permanent fashion, a blemish on otherwise perfect flesh. “You will be more.” I said to her, and I made it a vow. I was aboard the Lovesome Molly for a reason, and I had decided that reason now included Adaeze.

     I looked deep inside, to my very coin, and found there a plan waiting to be wrought by my good left hand.

***

     I do not actually require sleep, though I will, for appearances sake, close my eyes for long periods at night. The small silent hours I reserve for reading, using my acute night vision. Once or twice, a sailor has awakened with a start at the spectre of two tiny yellow lanterns in the gloom, but such concerns are easily dismissed using my special voice.

     Books about love are a regular indulgence. With great passion, Mr. Shakespeare elevated his lovers to the eternal plane: rebellious and proud Juliet and her Romeo, the ambitious Macbeths, reflective Hamlet and his sensitive Ophelia.

     On this evening, Mr. Dannish had loaned me a small volume containing the lyrics to a Scottish song my crewmates liked to sing after their evening pint of rum. In maudlin fashion, they belched out the bits where Barbara Allen foretold her lover’s demise without offering him her womanly comfort. Billingham interjected, “You’ll die without getting these!” while lewdly cupping his calloused hands to his bosom. The final verses struck me at the center of my being:

                    “For a young man died for me last night

                    And I’ll die for him to-morrow.”

 

                    One was buried in the middle of the church,

                    The other, in the Mary’s Abbey.

                    Out of one there grew a rose

                   And out of the other a briar.

 

                    And every night at twelve o’clock

                    They twined in a true lover’s knot

                     The red rose and the briar.”

     Though ambivalent on the subject of churches, the sentiment hit me hard. My eyes burned with an effort at crying, and I carried this feeling into the dawn. No truer proof of love could there be than such sacrifice and commitment.

     Captain Tyce was on deck before most of the crew, as was his custom. Dark circles below his eyes attested to his disdain for sleep. As a man, he should draw renewal through such proper rest.

     Taking a deep draught from a canteen (I could smell its contents), the captain spoke in his gravelly voice, saying, “Mr. Orv, thou wilt see to this suggestion of thine. Do not, however, distract my crew from their duties until thou art ready.”

     “Aye, captain. Before I begin, may I ask you a question?” He grumbled an ascent, and I asked, “Does love render humans immortal?”

     “Has thou begun thine celebrations already, Orv?” he chuffed.

     Realizing I had once again omitted an important part of the telling, I hastily described my reading to him. “The woman realizes her love too late, but the couple is united after she too succumbs. So, it is good that they die, is it not? Now they can be together in eternity.”

     The captain stamped his boot onto the deck, causing a midshipman to startle. “Nothing lies beyond this life save sorrow and penance before God,” Tyce said. “Our days number too few to squander them on romanticized balderdash.” His eyes were staring over the rim of blue before us, and he was drifting, listening…

      She was singing again. Her song rose from the planks, taking the chill from the morning air. Her voice warmed the very coin within my chest. It was then that a great clap of destiny struck my consciousness, perhaps sent by Nick himself. I understood something intrinsic to my being, and I did not hesitate to act upon it.

     “I will make certain you meet… Adaeze at the party.”

     “Is that what the gatherers named her? A Daisy.” I decided not to correct his pronunciation. “Hardly a proper appellation for Newport society.” His gruffness was a bluff, of course. I’d solved the mystery of this man. He was lonely. “Thou say she’ll attend this frivolity thou insists upon? The company will inquire as to the cause for us to dip into the reserve stores of food and drink.”

     “Have I ever cost you profit?”

     “No, Orv. It’s true. Bent-backed, left-handed wretch that thou art, thou art my good luck talisman.”

      This was far from the first time Captain Tyce had assaulted me in the verbal sense. I tried to understand his seeming innate distrust. My left-handedness seemed of particular concern. Whenever I pressed him ever so slightly on the matter, Tyce stated as if by rote that ‘come Judgement Day, the righteous will pass to God’s right, while the damned will part to the left.’ I took this to mean that the other Lord was right-handed and a snob about it.

     The good captain continued, “How many times hath thou led me to success? I cannot count, though success may not be the precise word in the end. I doubt I will stand in the Light and be judged well after such business as we conduct now.” This was our fourth voyage together, and our most profitable by far. It would allow Captain Tyce to close out his sea-going days in comfort, not yet aged forty years. I wondered at his misgivings. That other Lord was a fool indeed if He frowned upon bringing blacks to civilization and enriching the bringer in a single stroke. “So, bring on thine celebration of the coming landfall.” He added in a whisper, “And bring on…”

     I said, “Adaeze.”

     “Daisy,” Captain Tyce repeated.

***

     A ship at sea is both a nervous hive of activity and a vessel of crushing doldrums. No sailor dares stand idle for more than a second if there is a chance an officer might happen by. Still, the chores of tending the planks and canvas of a ship repeat so often, a thinking mind atrophies for lack of creative challenge. Hence, my small celebration was a welcome diversion. It also appeared to the excitement-starved crew to be grander than the most dazzling masques of Europe.

     I enlisted the rickets-stricken and toothless Mr. Grosvenor and his concertina, along with an axe-faced seaman named Rosseter on the Jew’s harp, a jangling instrument spuriously linked to the children of Abraham. Another sailor known only as Biscuit plucked away at the fiddle claimed from Mr. Lockwood’s belongings, attacking the task with intrepidity if not skill. This cacophony and ample supplies of rum produced great merriment in the men such that several bent their knees in an awkward attempt at dancing. First Mate Trask immediately put a stop to the business lest they upset the captain’s vestigial Quaker sensibilities any further than they had already.

     Mr. Dannish led a large group of blacks up on deck. “As you suggested, Orv, they are mollified by spirits and rendered docile.”

     “Excellent. And where is – ”

      I did not need to finish my question, as Adaeze then climbed out of the hatchway and into the light. Her dark features were drained and drawn, but her youth fought back with a strength born of determination. Indeed, a small fissure was etching a permanent place on her brow as she met the world with a burning resolve. Of all the humans on that rolling deck, she possessed the most squared shoulders, the proudest-set mouth, and the most imposing visage.

     Captain Tyce joined Mr. Dannish and myself in convening an audience for this young woman. Adaeze looked from one of us to the next in wonderment, not knowing how she had become an object of such fascination.

     Captain Tyce looked uncharacteristically small as he spoke to her. “Mr. Orv tells me thou art the one who sings sweetly at day’s end.” He said it so flatly it was difficult to discern whether the captain was making an inquiry or an accusation. “I art Quaker, or so I do yet call myself. We keep our hymns for Sunday.”

     Adaeze looked to me, and the thought occurred that she did not grasp English. So, I translated, and she responded through me, “I am sorry if my singing offended you, Captain.”

     “I take no offense from such sweet aires. They are a precious commodity aboard the Molly.”

     Again, I translated. Tyce never broke his gaze, nor did Mr. Dannish. If I hadn’t know better, I’d have wagered Adaeze had these men under a spell. I, of course, felt no such sentiment. It’s just…

     Adaeze said, “I sing to my home soil, that I may join my ancestors.”

     This was not something one tells one’s captain. Thinking quickly, I offered this translation: “Adaeze says she has faith that her new life will be a rich one. She hopes to have a family, many children, in fact, and a hearth of her own one day. She looks forward to making landfall and to seeing Newport and to the challenges of a new life and –”

     “Ha!” Bemusement claimed Mr. Dannish. “Our comely negress spoke but few words, Orv. Surely, she couldn’t have said all that. You embellish.”

      This broke my concentration. I had an idea of how to improve the situations of two humans in one move. The captain needed someone, and Adaeze needed a situation. I started to explain this, taking Adaeze’s hand and placing it in Captain Tyce’s.

       I might as well have put her hand into the mouth of a shark. She pulled back sharply, her elbow jabbing a chained man behind her so hard he spilled his tin cup of rum. “No!” she cried. The word needed no translation.

      “The charts require my attention. Finish thine revels by eight bells, Mr. Orv.” With that, the captain withdrew in some haste to his cabin. Even as I chased a few steps after him, Adaeze ran from the deck, returning to the claustrophobic darkness below.

      “Well done, Orv,” Mr. Dannish laughed. “You are our cupid of the high seas! I need rum.”

     I stood wondering what I had done wrong. Clearly, there was mutual benefit to be had. All I need do was to make the arrangements. I had done that, and with style! The ersatz band was playing a jig. Men, blacks and whites alike, were drinking and laughing. Why had I not succeeded?

      Looking around, I saw Mr. Dannish with two mugs, climbing down the main hatchway. I decided to follow the captain after all. I planned to talk to Adaeze later in the evening, explain to her the advantages of my plan. As it turned out, I spoke to neither. A crewman, seeing the captain leave the deck, broke into dance and grabbed me so forcefully, I could only join him.

      As a habit I do not imbibe, though, as a thaumaturge, I could hold my rum. It was instead the world that brightened about me. The concertina became a grand piano and the Jew’s harp and fiddle a philharmonic orchestra.

      The evening passed into night and then into morning. If Captain Tyce objected to the party’s longevity, he never emerged from his seclusion to end it.

      “You missed first meal, Orv,” Mr. Dannish said. “So did I, but with better reason.” He gave me a ribald wink.

      It took me the briefest of moments to regain my surety. Cupid, indeed. I may have missed my mark, but my arrow had found a suitable target. Adaeze would find a rich future with a good man.

***     

     Late the following day, an excited cry sounded from the top mast: “Land!” The smells of animals and human activity replaced the salt briskness that had been so much of our lives these past weeks. The crew made final preparations for sailing into port. The eyes of every captain’s widow and port denizen would be upon us, and vicious mocking would greet any crew whose ship entered Narragansett Bay less than orderly and trim. Such lax sailors would be jeered as if they were donkeys.

     We anchored the Molly at Bowen’s Wharf, one of one hundred fifty wharves handling the bustling rum, slave, and textile trade enriching Aquidneck Island.

     “Make fast the lines!” Mr. Dannish called. Odd, since he was usurping the role of the first mate, though Mr. Trask seemed disinterested in his duties and eager to indulge his pleasures ashore.

     Mr. Dannish had been a nervous soul since the party. Usually voluble, he barely spoke three words in succession of late and found an excuse to avoid Captain Tyce. Rumors abounded among some of the crew that Dannish and he had exchanged harsh words in the captain’s cabin. In any case, Mr. Dannish was the first man to disembark in Newport. Slinging his ditty bag over his shoulder, he bustled through the waterfront vendors and out of sight.

     By rights, he should have organized the removal of the blacks, but that duty fell to me. Well enough, as I had attended auctions in the past and knew the warehouse where the blacks would be scrubbed down with lye, clothed, and housed prior to sale.

     “Captain, I was under the impression that the Lady Adaeze –” I dared bestow a fantastical title upon her “– would be of more value as a member of a private household. There is no need to go through the process of –”

     “Get her to the block, Orv. Trouble me not with thine propositions.” He would not meet my eyes.

     The time for conversing was concluded. With the help of three other sailors, I removed three hundred plus forty-eight blacks from the bowels of the Lovesome Molly.

     Two sisters were not among that number. They had surrendered to misguided fantasy after the party. Before being secured below, they broke free from the inebriated guards and jumped over the side of the ship, apparently hoping to find freedom in the new land. Alas, they were not free from each other. Still chained together at the ankle, the girls discovered neither could swim. Clinging to one another, they sank beneath the ripples before Captain Tyce could lower a longboat to rescue them. He stood, looking at the lonely patch of water where the girls had been. It was a disappointing end to a voyage that had otherwise lost an acceptable number of blacks. Fortunately, the Molly delivered on her quota and all crew received full shares.

     We marched the blacks in groups of twenty. Bared feet carried half-naked men and women over cobblestones and through fetid patches of mud from the waterfront to the warehouse. It took the whole of the morning and well into the afternoon, as leg shackles rendered movement clumsy. Even Grosvenor with his bowed legs could keep pace. The cumbersome business drew grumbling from the sailors.

     “I’ve earned enough for two bottles and two bosoms. Let’s be quit of this dismal errand!”

     “We’re done when they’re safe, Rosseter,” I called back, feeling suddenly suited to being an acting officer. “The lady and her crabs will be waiting for you when we’re finished.”

     Newport’s burgeoning populace – some claimed the number had topped eleven thousand! – scarcely spared a glance at the coffle of filthy bodies. Such a sight was as banal as a wagon of rum barrels from one of the two dozen waterfront distilleries, as forgettable as an oysterman pushing his barrow. Even so, I did get the sense of being observed. I dismissed it as the natural after-effects of living on a floating world where human presence ended at the gunwale. Here, activity stretched in all directions.

     Each trip took us past the dizzyingly tall spire of Trinity Church, now Episcopal after severing the ties that bound it to Mother England. Its bells announced the noon hour, and sailors and slaves alike could not resist gawping at its heaven-probing spindle. I could resist.

     The other site of note on our route was the Tower. The irregular circle of stones stood roughly two dozen feet across and a few feet taller, and yet the modest assemblage formed six alluring archways. Built more than a century earlier, it held a fascination bordering on obsession for the citizens of Newport. The Old Stone Mill’s history had been overwritten by legend, including lurid tales of Viking incursions and even whispers of occult goings on. Again, had that latter bit been true, I’d surely have known.

     Still, it’s the myth that matters. Myth provides useful imagery and structure to support hierarchies. Hierarchies embolden men to achieve status, which, in turn, creates demand for regular profit. It is by accruing and displaying profit and wealth that men assert their supremacy over others. As such, myth is the staff of life.

     I was admiring the Stone Tower on our final march to the warehouse when a familiar voice tickled my ear. “Orv, you misbegotten imp!” It was Zurn, standing no straighter than a blighted aspen sapling, dressed all in heavy fabric of black and white like one of the pen-gu-ins sailors tell of when returning from voyaging perilously close to Terra Australis Nondum Cognita.

     I called a halt to our march, which the sailors took as an invitation to plant their backsides into the green grass. Adaeze remained standing. I’d put off delivering her as long as I could, hoping to change the captain’s mind, but to no avail. She and Zurn locked eyes. Hers were a shade of fertile earth. His were yellow like mine, but closer to the color of horse piss than my own pair.

     “I did not know you were traveling in these parts, Zurn.”

     “I am not a traveler, like you, Orv. I am bound to this place.” He leaned in close enough that I could smell the spoiled mutton on his breath. “This is my territory.”

     To be clear, Lord Nick occasionally assigns territories to his minions, but no one had notified me, and I said as much. “I am also thinking of establishing a long-term residence here. We’ll be neighbors.”

     This was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it, but I loathed Zurn from way back. Way back. I wanted to pluck the scraggly, pointed beard from his chin.

     “I am Zurn, Bachelor of Thaumaturgical Arts Second Order.” I knew my brother, for Nick’s sake! Such pretension. “You do not infest my territory unannounced.”

     At this, my crewmates, Adaeze, and the other men and women in chains looked at the two of us with sudden alarm. Some of the blacks squirmed at the edge of panic.

     “See what you’ve done!” I complained. I hastily spoke to my group in my special voice. Within seconds, Zurn and I were the only ones awake. Passersby might have wondered why the others suddenly lay fallen into collective slumber in the late afternoon sun, but if they did, no one molested us. That was a relief. My vocal persuasion should erase the last minutes from their memory, but the sleep would be brief.

     Zurn said, “I don’t need you interfering with plans beyond your comprehension or skill level.”

     “Brother, we are working toward the same end. I want what’s best for everyone, this group included.”

     “You mean you want a betterment for this girl. I see how you regard her, Orv.” He was correct. Covetousness. It’s our one sin. “I don’t blame you. A night of heat and howling would not go amiss.” I hated his laugh. It sounded like a cat regurgitating the guts of some hapless vermin.

     “She is spoken for.” This was a small lie. If it was going to succeed, I needed to make it larger. “She is committed to the Reverend John Dannish, officer of the good ship Lovesome Molly and scion of one of the wealthiest families in the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations.” I could have kicked myself for not inserting the word Most ahead of Reverend and thus making Dannish an archbishop. In any case, the ruse stopped Zurn, who was not a powerful thinker. Titles and large names boggled his capacities.

     Zurn snarled, revealing one yellow snaggletooth, then in a treacly voice said, “Then she has a bright future in service to her master. Even now, we are working to secure the blessings of technology.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “The currents of change are irresistible, Orv. There is growing pressure here in the north to end the establishment of slavery.”

     “No!” I gasped.

     “Yes, it’s true.”

     “That would leave millions trapped in backward lands, cut off from the blessings of civilization,” I insisted.

     “True, but fear not. I have been working with certain associates to spread the use of Mr. Whitney’s invention.”

     I had read of this. Eli Whitney was a tinkerer from Massachusetts, and his brainchild was the cotton engine, or gin as he called it. “The reports in the shipping gazettes seem fantastical,” I said.

     “They should,” Zurn replied. The machine can produce cleaned cotton by the scores of pounds in an infinitesimal of the time it takes for human hands to separate out the seeds. Factories are springing up in the southern states. Technology is liberating the slave from this drudgery. Less labor done in-of-doors, more profit. Everyone benefits!”

     Zurn enjoyed giving lectures, and he showed no sign of running out of hot air. “Best of all, it provides struggling plantation owners a strong incentive to sow crops on a scale never before envisioned. Word from high up suggests an appetite to end the import of slaves. Certain churches have lost the stomach for it, and where churches go, politicians will follow like salivating dogs. In fact, the north may well abandon slavery as a business practice. It is indeed fortunate then that the demand for slaves working in southern fields soars ever higher!”

     “Thank goodness!” It made perfect sense. Newport’s capitalists were well-positioned to profit from increased factory production, even if the human agricultural labor shifted southwards. I said as much. “Spurred by textiles, there will be greater wealth throughout New England, a more prosperous world for those who can claim it,” he said, his eyes flaring in the midday light.

     The others were beginning to stir.

     I asked Zurn, “Tell me, how may I help?”

     Zurn took my hand and squeezed, first gently then with a painful grip. He yanked me violently forward, tripping me in the process so that I went sprawling onto the lawn even as Adaeze began recovering her senses.

     “I don’t need your help! No one needs your help, Orv.” The coin inside me suddenly glowed with a stabbing red heat. “Stay out of my way!”

     Before I could recover myself, that demon was off.

***

     It may aid your comprehension, and thus your enjoyment of my tale,  if I describe to you my birthday. Birth is perhaps the wrong word. I have forty thousand siblings who came into being over a vast span of time. Zurn is my least favorite, as are the others. Lord Nick created us in His Imperious image. As such, we darklings resemble mortals with two distinctions. Our backbones are not strictly plumb, and we possess striking yellow eyes; however, I employ a certain beguilement to conceal the latter trait. On occasion, I allow this trick to lapse. Accidents happen.

     Those of my breed overwhelmingly present ourselves as men. Strictly speaking, we are neither men nor women. The concept of gender scarcely matters since Lord Nick has not gifted us with the ability to procreate. This is something of a sore subject. I can and often do ape the throes of passion. It amuses me to observe my mortal partners in these moments; but, much like profit, I have no actual need of coitus. It is more that I find myself drawn to both. How human!

     There are other trivial specifics. For instance, I do not possess a heart. None of us has one, or any other organs per se within our assemblage of flesh, hair, tooth, tongue, and eyeballs. For my birth, Lord Nick filled a clever receptacle with a slurry of oils and minerals, toads and bats and scarabs and… and I may be jesting. Fair warning: I am possessed of a wicked sense of humor.

     I will reveal that my loving master also placed inside each of us a sparkling coin. Each is unique and wondrously special. The coin’s face bears Father’s likeness, while the reverse bears an engraving that provides the darkling with a life motto, an imperative by which to live. I have never seen my coin, which should go without saying. Have you ever dug out your heart to look at it?

     When he first awakened me in the chamber of making, Lord Nick told me my coin carries the true meaning of my name and therefore sets my destiny. “This is far more than my Creator ever gave me!” Nick’s words escaped his thin, tight lips in an animalistic growl, then in a flash, his voice rose to a laugh so immense it shook the labyrinthine walls; orange flames and lava belched forth from brimstone stalagmites; and a legion of paired yellow lanterns scattered to the far reaches of that stony realm.

     I am still attempting to decipher the deeper meaning of Orv.

     We possess other blessings. We are gifted to roam wherever men roam, “by footfall, horse haul, or sail tall.” Naturally, this means being prepared. I often carry a sack or purse. When I reach my hand into it, I may pull forth a modest clutch of coins, a suitable traveling garment, a bottle, or other useful items.

     To my great amusement, this attracts attention. I cannot tell you how many times I have been waylaid and robbed of my purse. I take particular satisfaction in following my highwayman to his lair. I wait until he discovers my purse is naught but empty pig hide. When he is dispirited, I slip free of the shadows, reach into my pocket and produce a knife, then gut the thief as he deserves.

     Darklings are gifted to be industrious. As I say, I rest but little, so I have learned to lay with my thoughts. Dreams, I have none. Work, not dreams, yield profit.

     We may employ a certain, special voice wholly alien to mortals. I am admonished not to disclose its exact workings for fear that humans would learn this method of persuasion. The result would be ghastly indeed.

     We live without dying. Well, this is true if we’re immensely careful. More on that later. We don’t strictly need to eat; we cannot starve. Eating is satisfying. As is sex, though, as I say, there is no purpose beyond my own brand of pleasure. We cannot drown, nor can we die only from cold or heat. That said, fire is no friend to my kind. Don’t you find that curious? I do.

     We are gifted with insight into mortals. It’s a clumsy tool at best, but I use it surprisingly often. I may gaze a certain way at a woman or a man and know their general disposition without exchanging a word. Humans, I have found, are less diverse than they would like to believe. None is pure, one way or the other, and the grays all blur together. The grays turn black when humans tell themselves a want is actually a need. It’s amusing to watch this happen, and of tremendous use.

     I can read my siblings as well, though I don’t like to read my siblings. We are a brooding lot.

     All of this comes to one purpose: I am sworn by the hearth on which I was made to serve the pleasures of Lord Nick. 

     Unlike that indifferent, silent Lord, Nick gives us direction from time to time. It was he who set me to take a mission aboard the Lovesome Molly. It was in Lord Nick’s service, that I met… and fell in love with Adaeze.

 

Second Verse

 In This Moment, In This Land

Adaeze

 

     They are muffled. Everywhere, I see mzungu tucked inside wools and cottons and linens. There seems little need for such confinement as the air is mild, if unpleasant, owing to strange animals called horses dropping their mess everywhere. Yet the mzungu cover their legs and even the tops of their heads in pounds of fabric.

     Mzungu is a word I learned from others on the ship. It is not one of my village’s words. I had never seen a mzungu before these men came, though Grandmother had warned me of the dead spirits who walk. How I wish I had never seen one still. I miss my village; not Uncle, but my mother and aunties and brothers. I miss the feel of grasses and warm soil under my feet, reassuring me of my place in the world. Here, the mzungu make me cover my feet as if it were wrong to touch the Earth. I think they are ashamed of the bodies the spirits gave them. This is odd, for while they wear the pallor of dead fish, they are an attractive people.

     They are also a selfish people.

     They daily force me to learn their words while making no effort to learn mine or even my name. This language, this English, is a clumpy, unnatural burden to my tongue. It does not lend itself to singing, and the songs I hear them sing are suited to funerals rather than celebrating Mr. God. They call their songs hymns. At first, I thought they meant hims, because the men are the only ones allowed to speak in public. The women are forced to stay quiet and trail behind the men. These white men have muffled their wives, daughters, sisters, mothers, grandmothers, and aunties.

     I am learning. I have decided to remember every detail so that I may tell others. I will tell them never to get on ships.

     It is important to be pleasant, no matter how outrageously I am treated. I think that some of the people here want to be better than they are. There is a woman who reminds me very much of my aunties. She has provided all of us blacks with these clothes. The clothes are uncomfortable, but I understand that she means the gift to be an act of kindness, and I sense she is a kind woman. So, I learn as much as I can, and I act the way she tells me to.

     They tell us it is okay now to grow our hair again. We do not have the familiar oils and herbs to work the hair as we’d like. I miss the combs my mother made for me almost as much as I miss – No, I must not let my mind go there. Growing our hair out helps restore the individuality they took from us, if only a little.

     The men who guard us in the big hut are cold inside. They drink rum every day, from when they wake late in the morning until they snore at night. They do not sing hymns. They talk about their masters who live in some place they call “the front offices.” The men use a word: chattel. One time, I was standing next to two milking cows. One of the men pointed and used the word chattels. It occurred to me that he was pointing both to the cows and to me. I do not like these men.

     Others are sad. I am thinking of Captain Tyce from the ship. I cannot see the burden he carries, but it must be quite heavy because it weighs on him like a mountain. My friend in the village once stole ackees and ate them so quickly that he became sick. My aunties whipped his bottom with green twigs until he bled and cried out. For many days, the boy walked about with a look of shame, but one day he was happy again. He never stole any more ackees. Captain Tyce had that same look aboard the ship, deep sadness and shame. Captain Tyce stole people, not ackees. It is a hateful thing, and yet when I look at him, I see a gentle man who has brought pain upon himself.

      When they took us off the ship, Captain Tyce looked at me and said, “God, may Thou forgive this wretched soul.” I do not think it is Mr. God’s forgiveness Captain Tyce needs. I hope one day he may be happy again.

     As I learned about this place, this Newport, I am making plans to return home. I must. I do believe that my John will take me back across the ocean. Dearest John is very attractive. He has eyes like ocean waves, and he uses many sweet-sounding words when he takes me to the quiet lofts. “You are dark and warm. You are my coffee, and I will drink you,” he says, and it makes me giggle so much I am sure we will be discovered. I love him. Brave John will take me home again. He will do this for me. He will do it for us. Gentle John will like our village. He is a nervous man, endlessly working to convince others he is more important than he is. Our village will teach him to become the man the winds crafted him to be.

     I will teach John to listen to the spirits. They call upon us to sing happy songs and they sing back to us. Mr. God does not sing. Everyone, including my good John, talks to God. They call it praying. They do it all the time, and they pray extra hard one day each week, which they call Sun Day whether it rains or not. If Mr. God answers, he must whisper too, for I cannot overhear a single word.

     I have tried asking Mr. Orv why Mr. God is so rude, never keeping up his part of the conversation. Mr. Orv laughs at me. At me. That is also rude. I do not like Mr. Orv. He talks on and on and uses long words when short ones would do. I do not like him. He seems to like me very much, however.

     Mr. Orv came to me on the ship many nights. He liked my singing. He told me again and again how my life would be better in the new country he called The United States of America. He never told me what a state is, or what an America is. He makes them sound wonderful. I might think that, too, if I could feel like a person here and not like a milking cow.

     On the ship, I used to cry at night. It took many nights for my grieving to flow out of me as I knew it must. Mr. Orv would come to me and hold my hand. It almost reminded me of the way my mother would comfort me when I got hurt, singing to me about how the animals loved the rain. She would rock me in her arms until the pain went away. Orv would hold my hand when I cried, but his touch gave me no comfort. He would stare at me in the darkness. His eyes would flay off my skin to see whatever was inside.

     I think that, from the first, he has wanted more from me but is afraid to ask. Or maybe he thinks I am a spirit who must not be touched. Boys in my village used to look at me in a certain way. They liked my breasts and fulsomely-portioned backside very much. I liked that they liked them. They would ask to touch them, and sometimes I let them if I could touch what I wanted to touch. Touching is good. With Mr. Orv, I cannot tell what he seeks. He has never tried to touch me between my legs; I much prefer my handsome John’s touch. I would not like Mr. Orv to touch me there, but I would understand it. I do not understand Mr. Orv. That frightens me.

     Mr. Orv’s attentions might be a welcome thing – I could perhaps ask him to help me and my true John find a ship. I will be careful not to be too harsh in rejecting him. Still, he is an odd man. His back bends unnaturally to one side, and there are times when his eyes seem to change color. It happens for a flickering instant, and then they’re back to normal, but in that moment, I swear I see –

     I do not like Mr. Orv.

 

Third Verse

Proper Tempests

Orv

 

      The warehouse hid behind a row of oaks, removed enough from the gaily dressed shop windows of Thames Street so as not to offend polite society. The twin high-gabled brick structure was a great improvement over the stifling quarters afforded these people aboard the Molly. It was reasonably well-lit and spacious even for the two hundred odd souls not already claimed as property and now awaiting auction. Clean straw offered a pleasant-smelling place to rest. Food was plentiful, thanks to the good ladies of Trinity Church.

     Unlike the Quakers, Baptists, and other denominations that had denounced the practice as immoral, the Episcopal Church prudently viewed slavery as a legal and political issue separate from matters of morality or faith. That is not to say the ladies of the church would ever shirk their righteous mission to make newcomers welcome.

     I am proud to say Captain Tyce’s housekeeper, the indomitable Mrs. Clarke, led the charge! She was a handsome woman of some years; rumor put her age past sixty, if one could believe such a thing in this climate. Yet here was an indefatigable woman of rosy cheeks and good cheer, someone I had long been trying to know better.

     In the first weeks since our landfall, Mrs. Clarke and her church sisters came bearing textiles and finished clothes. These included shoes, sturdy woolen pantaloons, and undyed canvas shirts for the men and boys, with jackets promised before the first snows.

     “Snow?” asked one young black who had a growing comprehension of English thanks to tutors sent by the ladies.

     Mrs. Clarke answered with a bluster straight from Dorset in England’s West Country. She refused to tame her accent despite lingering resentments over the British occupation of Newport during the war. “Did they teach you nothin’ aboard that ruddy vessel?” Her vowels and Rs did a happy jig while her initial Hs and final Gs went a-wandering. “’ere then, snow. Cold white powder tumblin’ down from ’eaven, from ’round bouts November until deep into April,” she told the astounded boy, though she might as well have been describing the hidden face of the moon. “You’ll be seein’ it direcky, me ’ansum boy.”

     For the women, Mrs. Clarke and her fair brigade issued a flurry of gingham, enough to satiate the desires of any girl present. The utility plaids ranged from doleful taupes to dusty blues to listless sepias, while a single garment tempted the eye with egg-yolk brightness. If the slaves’ dresses were more understated than those the church-goers wore, they were also freshly laundered and only lightly patched. And how the black girls fought over this bounty!

     All of this largesse did not go unnoted by me. I had attended my share of auctions in Savannah, Charleston, and the flourishing port of Havana. There the unwashed chattel were made to strut across a ramshackle stage in only enough rags to cover loin and breast. By comparison, Rhode Island’s slave market was the very measure of prim modernity.

     I had business about the town, not least of which was learning exactly how Zurn had ingratiated himself with the local population – but more on that later. It was only days before the auction when I was able to spend more than a moment or two with Adaeze. I was pleased to see life ashore had plumpened her. She’d gone from a shriveled autumn stalk to a bursting sack of barley corn ready for the still, thanks, again, to the beneficence of the church. No man, human or otherwise, could resist her.

     And yet, not all was to the good. She met her new reality with a hollow gaze. More troubling, her evensong – I stopped outside on my travels to listen – had begun to falter. A growing lethargy threatened to smother its joie de vivre. While the others from the voyage were gaining vitality, it was almost as if life were draining from her. I had to act quickly.

      “I have been pursuing all possible avenues, my girl. Mr. Dannish has absented himself from public places. There are, however, men of station and means who would gladly take you into their household. It is a matter only of choosing –”

     “My night gentleman doesn’t want me in his household,” she said. English was working its way into her already, a word here and there, though her enunciation suffered, owing to the sobbing. Still, she was acclimatizing well. That was the main thing. “I told him I think I’m gone.” She really was becoming difficult to understand. Her lips quivered and tears flowed most annoyingly from her eyes. “He s-says he’s g-got himself a mate’s posting… aboard the Corinth… bound for Baltimore and onwards south to the West Indies.”

    I labored to digest this serving of rancid meat. I had no doubt as to the identity of Adaeze’s “night gentleman,” as he’d earned that monicker with other black women aboard the Molly. I had caught him in the act once but found his technique too uninspiring to warrant further observation. It disquieted me greatly that Mr. Dannish had fled Adaeze’s side. What had happened to his poetry, to Shakespeare, to his Good Book? Could a man love these things and not love Adaeze? Inconceivable. My insides boiled.

    A quick lie occurred to me. “This makes no sense. He has always been quite taken with you. He told me so. You are a rare jewel to him. Surely, he could secure a townhome and install you as –”

    Her eyes flared and she hissed at me, “I am no beast or tool to be installed. I want a man to love. Why can’t you… you mzungu love? You! You take me home. I need to go…” She was becoming agitated. Fortunately, Mrs. Clarke was a fair distance away on the other side of the warehouse. Still, I dared not chance Adaeze drawing attention. I used my special voice and quietened her to slumber.

    She was not happy. I could see that.

    I needed time to think. I would not allow Adaeze to be randomly sold on the block with the others. Nor could I allow Mr. Dannish’s breech of the romantic code to go unanswered. Therefore, I had precious few days in which to attend to two pressing matters.

    My first errand would require a mere skiff. As I’ve said, I do not tire nor lack for stamina. The Corinth was an aging sloop, and her masters had long postponed her ultimate destiny: to be broken up for firewood and coffin lids. She had sailed on the previous evening’s tide. I could catch her easily, and then I would get matters sorted out with Mr. Dannish.

***

     My return from this business stirred up a minor commotion as most of the locals had never seen a figure swim from the horizon to the shore and step out of the waves.

     “Surely, ye are a drowned man!” cried one fellow who was out walking along the shore with his little black Scottie dog. As I got closer, his words fled him, and he fled me. I may have forgotten to properly color my eyes in that moment. I was, after all, in an impassioned emotional state. No matter. I reached behind some dune grasses and produced for myself suitable dry clothing.

     The ocean’s capricious eddies had taken me many miles from where I’d started. After walking through the day, I found a public house where I was able to hire a carriage. The return trip also required a ferry ride, which might have been pleasant had I not been under constraints of time. The whole business with the Corinth took me six days.       

     Back in Newport at last, I made my way to the warehouse, which held only a fraction of the personage it had when last I’d been there. My inner slurry churned as I inquired about Adaeze. The few remaining blacks did not even recognize her name.

     From there, I made my way to the auction docks, around which were gathered carriages and men with joyless faces festooned in whiskers.

     The auctioneer’s voice rang out across the marketplace: “Next lot. Two fine bucks. Brothers. Look at those muscles. Backs like elm trees! Born for the field or for building, your choice. Let the bidding begin at $500 or $950 for the pair.” What a breathtaking sum! Hands shot up throughout the crowd, and the auctioneer noted each bid. In the end, the brothers went to two separate households, one in Massachusetts and the other in the distant reaches of the Mississippi Territory. What very different adventures awaited them. How excited they must be!

     Sitting by the window of a small building to one side of the auction stage, I spotted the scrivener and quickly introduced myself by dropping on his desk a cascade of bronze coins stamped by the National Bank of Providence.

     “She’s young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen,” I said with some urgency. “She is wearing a plain yellow dress.”

     The scrivener did not look up from his ledger nor even set down his quill. “Tallying the past few days, that describes twenty young ladies.” There were surely not so many yellow dresses, but this was no matter. It was his tone that told me the man was not interested in helping me. The smell of whiskey about his person and the half-empty bottle on his desk told me the rest.

     Locating my purse, I thought to pull forth a few silver coins. Surely that would win the man’s respect. Then I thought, ‘What need have I for respect from this man?’ Reaching into the depths of my pocket, I found the shape I wanted.

     “So be it. I will require the names of twenty buyers, my good man.”

     He began to rise from his stool in indignation when I held forth the bottle. No look of bliss can compare to the face of a cheap-whiskey-man presented with a fine single malt.

     I departed with the copied list of buyers in hand, and as soon as I was outside the market grounds, I glanced at the names. There were in fact more than twenty, but my eye stopped at the second one.

***

     I was greatly relieved to know that Adaeze was safely harbored. Walking along the streets and avenues, I tipped my hat to her as she made her way from shop to shop on errands for her new household. We spoke a little. I was gratified to see that she was radiant, seemingly pleased with her new station in life although, perhaps, inwardly fixated. How I wanted to spend more time with her.

     Instead, I was forced to turn my attention to the bothersome matter of setting up a townhome and an employment situation. Strictly speaking, I needed neither, but since I planned to make of myself a familiar fixture in Newport, it was best not to raise too many questions by wandering the streets at all hours.

     The solution involved purchasing a defunct newspaper, complete with printing press. I had always appreciated the potential of mass communication, reaching hundreds and perhaps one day thousands of readers with each issue. The technological marvel now in my possession would allow me a direct route into the minds of the local population, sharing sailing schedules, news of commerce opportunities, obituaries (the first section many read), as well as the juiciest bits of gossip. And no, you are not the first one to call me a printer’s devil, as clever as that no doubt sounds to you. I performed that actual duty, laboriously setting the printing tray with prefabricated slugs forming words or individual letters. I did this along with all the various and sundry tasks at the newly-launched Newport Spy.

     The process of repairing the neglected press and securing ink, paper, and advertisers took me weeks, I’m sorry to say. I spent my few spare hours meeting in taverns with the town wags, who helped me fill the first issues with lurid tales of local debauchery. Delightful, as intoxicating as the pungent smell of the ink. As you can imagine, upstanding citizens were quick to pay their penny for such tasty fare.

     So, it was not until the cool weather had already begun blowing down upon New England from Nova Scotia that I paid a formal visit on the dynamic girl I’d met aboard the Molly.

     The Tyce House on Touro Street was as sturdy and tidy as any ship he’d captained. A squat wall of stones formed its perimeter, with flags leading neatly to a pilastered entryway and a door painted as red as a boiled lobster. Atop the three-story home, the captain’s walk offered a view of the harbor and Narragansett Bay. Around this, four chimneys stood sentry, speaking to the owner’s ability to afford comfort throughout the coming winter.

     I rang the large ship’s bell hanging outside, producing two brassy reports that hung in the crisp air.

     Mrs. Clarke opened the door with her usual exuberance. “Alright, me ’ansum. Take yourself in. Sit by the ’earth and get warm. Isn’t the chill comin on quick ’is year? We’ll be up to our red noses in snow in no time!”

     “No doubt,” I agreed. Snow could bury the local towns in a single night.

     “The cap’n ought be ’ome direcky for noon dinner. Ee’s attending to some business or other with ’is solicitors on Thames Street.” She pronounced it Temz in the English fashion, proudly rejecting the localized Thaimz. “He is willing himself to become a gentleman of the soil. Cap’n Tyce loves ’is farm property up in Barrington and is determined to run ’er in full-masted glory.” She leaned in to slyly add, “Orders the rhubarb into full sail and the corn to grow! grow! grow! ’is property overseer barely got the crops ’arvested for all of the fuss. The poor man’s taken to the jug.”

     I heard giggling coming from the pantry.

     “Ah, Daisy! Come in, girl. See who’s paid us a visit!”

     Adaeze was a vision. Her eyes twinkled, reflecting the embers of the hearth fire. She looked upon me and froze, her expression turning from deep contentment to a strained pleasantness.

     “Mr. Orv.”

     “Adaeze.”

     “Now, don’t you start that twaddle again,” Mrs. Clarke protested. Adaeze looked away. Mrs. Clarke continued her work at the table preparing sumptuous-looking mince pies zested to perfection with sage and onion, as well as fruit pies and small tarts. I was about to suggest a source of meat to mince, as wharf rats were plentiful and easily caught, when Mrs. Clarke spoke again. “No fancy airs ’ere. It’s Daisy Tyce for Newport. Daisy Tyce, plain and simple like. We don’t need nothin’ showy on our good cobbled streets.”

     “Daisy, then. You look…” even as I spoke, the full reality of how she looked – how others must see her – truly registered in my mind. She was indeed gone.

     Mrs. Clarke’s lips thinned, and she hummed a knowing note. “Yes, and we all would do better if you kept your mouth shut tight, Mr. Orv. That goes for your fish wrap of a newspaper as well.”

     My eyes went wide, and my jaw went slack. “Of course, yes, of course,” I stammered.

     I masked my brief disorientation by paying special attention to one or two items adorning the home. Captain Tyce had served aboard whalers at times during his career. Curved white teeth bigger than a man’s fist filled the ample shelves. Each bore a scene filigreed in India ink by the captain’s skilled hand. Indeed, for the price of a sack of raw whale ivory, Captain Tyce would instruct visiting cabin boys in the skill in order to impress their own future skippers. Teeth to artwork, a fine haul from the abiding sea.

     It was then no surprise that Tyce adopted from Sheba a white squall of a kit and named the beast Scrimshaw Sal. The house had another, older cat in residence for a time, until Sal chased it off. Scrimshaw Sal was determined to be first kitty at the cream saucer. This at least I understood. Everyone wants to be first kitty at the cream.

     “She’s an ’ellion, I swear,” Mrs. Clarke said, aiming the barb at Sal. “She’s always clawin’ at my door upstairs at night. I know what she wants. If anythin’ ’appens to my darlins Flitter and Flutter, I’ll make you into mittens, cap’n or no cap’n!”

     Daisy lifted Sal and headed back to the kitchen, whispering a gentle scolding. “Now, soldier on back to your mousing. Police the stalls. I expect an impressive heap on the doorstep each morning.” To this she added some words in her native tongue, setting off a torrent of purrs from the mongrel.

     Daisy returned immediately with a stack of bowls for the project now underway at the table. The space was loaded with freshly harvested butternut squash and deliciously pungent fruits set in formation.

     “Thank you, dear. Tis well and truly good to ’ave a woman’s company ’round ’is ’ouse again. It’s been five year since we lost Mrs. Tyce, bless ’er soul.”

     The usually forbearing Bonnie Tyce had paid an ill-timed visit to her sister in Philadelphia and died of Yellow Fever that summer of ‘93. She mightn’t have gone had the two not argued over his choice to accept my suggestion and sail slave ships, a decision which had also precipitated the captain’s dis-union from the Quakers. The compound blows had left Captain Tyce in a morose state despite the new prosperity our voyages to Africa had brought him.

     Mrs. Clarke slyly added, “I cannot ’elp but noticin’ the cap’n’s eye falls on you, m’girl.”

     Daisy swallowed and continued her business preparing the treats. Mrs. Clarke was instructing her on how to spice the apple pies and cranberry tarts. The nutmeg and cinnamon made me sneeze.

     “The smell is so powerful, like a whole harvest on a tabletop. I’ve never tasted anything like these crunchy red berries. They’re so… what is the word? Tart. And the apples remind me of the ackees back home,” Daisy said. I was in awe of her newfound skill at executing the English language. Indeed, here bloomed a flower of some beauty.

     Ignoring the nostalgia, Mrs. Clarke pressed on. “We’ll make jams of the rest. Good through the winter. Oh, but what a delight they are in season!” She crunched down on an apple with her good teeth, the ones on the left.

     I stepped up behind her and placed my hands over hers to… help her… in slicing the apples. “Why not have them crisp from the stem all throughout the year? The mind and will of men will one day bring you June berries in the snows of January and autumn gourds on the far side of the year.”

     She allowed me to embrace her longer than I expected. It was a game we played. I enjoyed seeing her blush. I would greatly enjoy –

     “Time waits for no woman. Best to enjoy these treats in their proper season.” Mrs. Clarke picked up a shriveled berry that was already fermenting. It had got mixed in with the lush ones. “Wishes fool you, make you choose things past their season. That flavor is unpleasant, indeed.”

     “Perhaps one day you’ll visit me and my family,” Daisy said.

     Mrs. Clarke raised her eyes in search of heaven. “The girl’s still adjustin’. At least she’s gettin’ ’er ruddy English screwed down tight.” Ruddy. As a sailor, I smiled inwardly at Mrs. Clarke’s self-restraint. Aboard ship, profane words the likes of bloody and bugger were always buzzing the air.

     Daisy spoke excitedly. “The captain has contacted a number of families who will let me take in their laundry. I can earn money that I need not spend on food. Soon, I will have enough to book passage home.” Mrs. Clarke’s gaze flew to the ceiling beams. “Once my blue-eyed gentleman returns from his trip, he and I can…” Daisy’s voice trailed off. She was still playing coy with his name, but her tone had softened since she had mentioned him last.

     “The dastard will not show ’is face ’round Newport again, I’m bound,” Mrs. Clarke said.

     Clearly, Daisy had not grasped the reality of her situation. It was my duty, as a friend and as a journalist, to disabuse her of her fantasy. I reached into my coat pocket and conjured the leaflet I wanted, the current copy of The Spy.

     “Regrettably, Mr. Dannish will not be returning,” I said with unquestionable gravity.

     Both women stopped what they were doing and looked at me. Mrs. Clarke took The Spy and walked closer to a hurricane lantern, twisting the knob to feed the flame and help her read and pulling from her apron a set of Mr. Franklin’s remarkable double spectacles.

     “Wreckage ’at warshed ashore near Branford,” she read, “is confirmed as bein’ flotsam from the Corinth. Exclusive details obtained by The Spy reveal the uncanny circumstances of ’er sinkin’ and the loss of all aboard ’er.” Mrs. Clarke stopped.

     “The best part is ahead,” I urged, though her speech ruined my hard work.

     The article went on to describe the sinking in glowing prose. My readers never questioned how I gathered quotes and such precise recounting when no witnesses had survived. In any case, I included lurid descriptions that hinted at my true nature without actually tipping my hand. I have come to understand the effect of such details on the reader, that is, a deeply-rooted fear of the elements, natural and otherwise. Delicious fear sells newspapers.

I took the article back from Mrs. Clarke and lent it my stentorian, albeit scratchy, tones:

      “The crew of the Corinth, late out of Newport, Rhode Island and bound for ports south with a cargo of finished textiles, liquor, crafted home furnishings and silver, two score Africans, and fifty crates of pickled fish encountered intemperate weather on its second night at sea.

     The officer of the late watch summoned the captain on deck to report the approach of a small vessel containing some individual who, by accounts of the officer, had lanterns where eyes should have been. ‘It appears to be a service skiff rowed out from shore, sir.’ It being usual for a boat to haul passengers and light belongings from shore to ship only, the officer also noted that the owner of the skiff rowed at unnatural speed to intercept the Corinth. Even as the little boat came alongside, somehow keeping pace with the square-rigger, the weather intensified from worrisome to dangerous, with seas of six feet and more.

     A singular man stepped upon the deck of the Corinth, a Mr. Scratch, home port undisclosed. Captain Cornelius Norris asked the crooked man, ‘What is your name and business on such a night as this that it makes you challenge these seas?’

      Mr. Scratch then demanded to see the ship’s newly-acquired second mate, a Mr. John Dannish. The captain objected to the tone of the demand, saying, ‘This is my ship, sir. You may request such a visit, but you will issue no demands as long as –’

      Captain Norris ceased his speaking, as he had fallen dead upon the deck of his own ship, his visage frozen in an expression of astonishment. The duty officer then summoned the cook, who possessed minor knowledge of medical matters. He diagnosed the cause of the captain’s demise as a sudden cessation of the heart owing to the stress of the storm and strangeness of the midnight visitation.

Also on deck by this time was Mr. Dannish. He met the weird Mr. Scratch and the two engaged in loud conversation.

Other crewmen who had come up to strike the sails on account of the inclemency report the two argued over Mr. Dannish’s character.

     ‘You were my gift to her, her passage to a fine future. You promised fidelity and then abandoned her. Scurvy cur, you’ve ruined my plan!’ Mr. Scratch reportedly accused.

     At this, Mrs. Clarke looked to Daisy, who stood with eyes wide. Clearly, the women were deeply moved by my writing. I read on:

     “Mr. Dannish denounced all knowledge of the woman in question. In a bluster of emotion, he is said to have called the woman ‘a trifle of dark skin and eager thighs.’ Mr. Dannish then joined in the frantic work to strengthen the Corinth against the sudden gale winds.

     Mr. Scratch persisted, demanding Mr. Dannish return with him to Newport or face his doom. The sailors beseeched him to do as ‘the crooked man demands that we might survive this night.’ To the crew’s horror, Mr. Dannish denounced Mr. Scratch as ‘a hell-spawned curse!’ As The Spy’s readers well know, a sailor possesses expertise in recognizing minions from the lower reaches of Hades. This perception was reinforced by the sudden appearance of St. Elmo’s Fire cavorting about the ship’s rigging which filled all nostrils with an unpleasant sharpness. It cast stark shadows while also reflecting brightly in Mr. Dannish’s pale eyes.

     The imperiled sailors began preparing the boats for the purpose of abandoning their ship, which was by this time foundering and doomed to extinction. The men’s efforts were heroic indeed, but in vain. Wailing rose up from sailors as well as from the Africans chained in the hold, as the Corinth issued a mortal lament and her timbers splintered asunder.

      They had no chance to lower the boats and cast them free to take their chances in the rough seas. The Corinth flooded within minutes, sinking into a whirlpool of terrifying dimensions and taking all hands with her. In the final moments, the voices of crewmen could be heard sending up appeals to the very Power that had permitted the storm to strike. No reply descended from the clouds.

      One expert on maritime disasters told The Spy that wreckage from the Corinth revealed her hull had been weakened by an unnatural ravening on the part of sea worms. ‘The small, omnipresent vermin are not known to be so active as to strike a fatal blow against a sailing ship in so brief a span of time. There can, howsoever, be no other earthly explanation.’

     No further reports of the squall reached shore, apparently dissipating as quickly as it had gathered. Likewise, there have been no further sightings of the eldritch midnight visitor, Mr. Scratch, but readers should pass along the tale to men of unwholesome predilections; for it may be safely believed that he somehow survived the sinking and is even now ashore keeping vigil to safeguard the virtue of young women.”

     The final lines were gratuitous, I confess, and the storm was entirely fictitious, but the sum effect was one of literary excellence. “A newspaper in Boston reprinted the article, so I’m told. I allow myself some small pride in the effort.”

     Mrs. Clarke had wrapped her arms about Daisy, the younger woman being moved to tears by the quality of my narrative skills. The housekeeper put her own aroused passions on display, stomping her foot and caterwauling, “Foolish man! Enough!”

     We were briefly interrupted, as a messenger knocked to say Captain Tyce would not return until later. Wishing to lighten the mood before I departed, I reached into my pocket and produced a pair of fine rings of rose gold, the type that might have found a prominent display in any of the jewelry shops on Thames Street, though that was not their origin. I gave one to each of the ladies.

     Daisy shook her head and fled the room.

     “Leave her,” Mrs. Clarke told me in no uncertain tone.

     “Well, of course.” I then reached into my other pocket and pulled forth a special gift for Mrs. Clarke. This time, it was an actual gift I had bought in my travels that I might bestow joy upon this woman. “It is the product of the finest woodworkers in Nantucket.”

     Her eyes fixed on the six-inch polished teak cylinder with its rounded head.

     “Orv.”

     “It’s a he’s-at-home.”

     “I know what it is.”

      “Think of me.”

     Before Mrs. Clarke could say another word, I placed the gift in her hand, which I then kissed in gentlemanly fashion before making my exit.

***

     I found the good captain the following morning up in Bristol, where he was inspecting his property from atop his fine Narraganset Pacer, whom he’d named Eager Tom. This was new land, ill-suited as yet to yielding large crops of any sort. Despite the insistent fall chill, a team of blacks rented from a neighboring farmer was perspiring profusely while digging to free a sizeable rock. They had rigged an ox to help, so that man and beast worked together. The team was moving like Sisyphus from one to the next, for the boulder was legion. The Silent One may have blessed this land with fertile earth and temperate climate, but He also rained stones upon the soil. One could scarcely walk three paces without stubbing one’s foot upon a chunk of granite. With great effort, these made fine walls to divide the parcels of farmland. Captain Tyce – or perhaps I should say Squire Tyce – was overseeing the work to make the fields suitable for agriculture, one acre at a time.

     “Another week and they’ll have this lot ready for spring planting,” I said cheerfully, riding up on a bay. That is, if the snows don’t come early.”

      “I have secured their labor through the end of November. If they cannot clear fields, they will mend barns, and moreover I have repairs and other chores they might perform about my house. And what brings thee to my country estate?” Was that humor on the part of the captain?

     “Do I need an excuse to visit an old friend?”

     “Indeed.” That brief glimmer of jollity vanished in an instant. The captain was mercurial in his nature.

     “I wish to discuss with you the disposition of your girl, Ada – Daisy.”

     “What disposition does thou seek to know?”

     I told him of a series of articles I was currently composing for The Spy. I had it on good authority that Newport, and indeed communities throughout Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New York, and beyond were on a path to dissolve the institution of slavery entirely.

     “This is no mere rumor but is well known.” The captain dismounted. Removing his coat and wideawake hat, he got to work with the blacks, wedging a long pole under the boulder for leverage. In their exertions, all grunted as one. Soon, his brow and person perspired such that he became indistinguishable from his rented fellows. “It is my intention,” the captain said, straining, “to rent more servants rather than take ownership, to avoid any economic disruptions. Or if the mathematics proves favorable, I may purchase many more servants that I may set them free.” Now raising his voice so to ensure the blacks around him heard, he said, “If this earth can be coaxed to yield profit, then let the benefits spread to all!” The blacks looked well-pleased and smiled at the announcement. They redoubled their efforts, and indeed the great boulder tumbled out of the grip of the earth that had bound it for eons. The blacks cheered. Captain Tyce put on his coat and broad-brimmed hat. His eyes found a passing cloud and his voice dropped to a whisper. “In this way, I may mitigate the judgement which surely awaits this pitiful soul of mine.”

     I have no idea what happens to souls. I have heard the captain speak in chilled tones of “the souls of sinners cast into the lake of fire.” It’s a pleasant place to visit. I’ve been to the lake often. I have not, however, found any souls of sinners or saints swimming there – nor would I myself ever dive in, of course. I would gladly have disabused Captain Tyce of his dire notions of the underworld, were it possible to do so without revealing my true nature.

     Instead, I dared press my main point of curiosity. “And Daisy?” I meant to ensure she be granted the fullest benefits of her station. Perhaps, one day, she and I –

     “When the time comes, Daisy Tyce will be made a free woman.”

     This was beyond my wildest expectations. Surely, Daisy would fall on her knees and thank me for helping her along this path. Not only was she being housed and fed and trained in useful skills, but she would one day receive her papers of manumission.

     “None of this is likely this year or next,” Captain Tyce said, mounting the gleaming chestnut horse. “So, there remains the other matter.” The captain took a deep breath of autumn air and looked across his fields at the strong backs bending to their next task. “The child will come by spring.”

 

     There's much more to this story; you haven't even met Hope or Robin, or Lady Perrin!

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