The Triumph of Grace (13 page)

Still wearing the over-sized silk dress, Grace lay down on the cot in the corner of the captain's cabin. If only she had not been so foolhardy! If only she had never gone out onto the deck in the first place. If only she had not so readily confessed everything to Jackie. If only . . . if only . . . If only she were not all alone.

But she was
not
all alone, was she?

Grace closed her eyes. Silently her lips began to move: " The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

Y
ou have met Judge Thomas Heyward, have you not?" Macon Waymon's business partner, Samuel Shaw, asked Macon.

"No, sir, I have not had the pleasure," Macon replied."And I must say, it is extremely good of you to include me in your visit to his house. From what I hear, his estate truly is a marvel."

"Politics is hardly a field for shrinking violets, now, is it?" Samuel laughed. "As I am determined to engage in a concerted effort to make my name well-known among the voting public, I consider it essential that I befriend men such as Thomas."

Macon opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Samuel dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, yes, I know what you will say, Macon. You will point out that Thomas Heyward is a sitting judge and no longer a congressional representative of our fair state. That is certainly true, of course. But nevertheless, he was a signer of the United States Declaration of Independence, and therefore he remains a personage of great importance. He was also the man chosen to host President George Washington on his singular visit to Charleston. So, whether a sitting representative or not, such a man cannot help but be an asset to my forthcoming campaign."

As Macon had intended to say no such thing, he simply smiled and nodded to his enthusiastic friend.

Samuel could scarcely hide his excitement as he anticipated the coming evening at Thomas Heyward's house. He adjusted and readjusted his stylish velvet frock coat. The garment reached to his knees and was richly decorated with elaborate buttons and embroidery. Corresponding breeches fastened tightly at his knees, and around his neck he wore one of the puffy ties for which he was known. A stylish ensemble, perhaps, but in the opinion of Macon Waymon, a silly set of clothing on a man as stout as Samuel Shaw.

"All is well with the cotton engine?" Samuel asked.

"Extremely well," Macon assured him. "That lame slave I purchased for so cheap a price from Silas Leland runs the operation. After one month with him at the gin, the storage houses on all five cotton plantations are now empty of cotton and swept clean. In just one single month! Why, before the cotton gin, it would have taken a slave ten hours of painstaking work just to separate one pint of cotton lint from three pounds of seeds!"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "The storage houses are swept clean, you say? But the new cotton crops will not be ready for harvest for six more months."

"Yes, yes," said Macon, "but we nevertheless continue to fill our pockets with money. Not through the sale of our own cotton, to be sure. No, no. Rather, by ginning cotton for all the neighboring farmers. And we are able to charge them a pretty penny for the favor, I might add!"

Samuel Shaw laughed out loud. "You have turned out to be a fine businessman, Macon. Indeed you have!"

Macon's man, Wiatt, had not yet announced the arrival of the carriage, although Samuel could see that it already waited outside. He had just picked up his hand-carved walking stick with the brass trim and was about to head for the door, Macon close behind him, when Wiatt hurried to Macon with an urgent message.

"It be Juba, Master," Wiatt said to Macon.

"Not now, Wiatt," Macon said as he waved him off.

"Juba say it be urgent," Wiatt insisted.

Samuel heaved an irritated sigh. "Really, Macon, can you not talk with your slave at a more appropriate time? It would be an extremely poor show to arrive late at the Heyward party."

Macon nodded and moved toward the waiting carriage.Wiatt, however, was most insistent.

"Just a short word with him, Master," Wiatt said. "Juba says that's all he asks of you."

Macon groaned in resignation and tossed his hat onto the table.

"One word, then. Tell Juba I will see him. But tell him I am in a hurry. Just one word and no more!"

The one word Juba had for Macon was "broken." And a most terrible word it was, too. For the cotton gin, it seemed, no longer worked. At the most unfortunate of times, too. With the last of the oceangoing vessels of the season jammed into Charleston Harbor, and already competing for the last freight runs of cotton to England, Macon Waymon was all too aware of the race against time. Every moment's delay in getting the last of the past harvest's cotton ginned, baled, and loaded onto ships meant dollars lost.

"You go ahead to Heyward's house, Samuel," Macon said."I will deal with this matter. It is much more important that you be at the party than I."

Macon Waymon followed Juba out to the cotton shed.Caleb had secured the gin on a waist-high wooden platform, though he was careful to leave the crank handle fully accessible.Fluffs of cotton, freed from their bolls, lay strewn about the floor. Behind the cotton engine, a line of half a dozen slaves waited for a turn at the gin, huge baskets of raw cotton balanced on their heads or tied to their backs.

"Caleb, I got de massa for you," Juba announced. "Tell him about de problem you has here."

"It be dis gin," Caleb said. "It don't work."

"But what exactly is the problem?" Macon insisted.

"De wire teeth on dis side here," Caleb said as he pointed inside the cotton gin. "Dey be all twisted up . . . Comes from so much turning 'em, I s'pose."

"Can you fix them?" Macon asked.

"I be tryin' to do dat, Massa," Caleb said. "But the base of dem teeth, it be too weak. Dey just can't pull de lint outta de seeds no more."

Macon shook his head in exasperation. Perhaps he could get another machine from Eli Whitney. But even if that were possible, it would never arrive in time to take advantage of the last weeks of this season's cotton shipping. Besides, Mister Whitney was certain to see Macon's desperation, and he would raise the price on his engine. What good was the machine if he and Shaw couldn't earn a profit from their business?

"I been studyin' how I could maybe makes you a whole new cotton machine," Caleb said.

Macon Waymon stared at his slave.

"What?" he demanded. "What did you say?"

"I didn't mean nothin' wrong, Massa," Caleb said quickly.

"No, no, nothing is wrong," Macon said. "Did you say you could make me a new cotton gin?"

"All I needs do is hammer wire teeth into a wood post dat can go round and round and catch all de little cotton lints like dis here," Caleb said. He pointed out the appropriate parts on Eli Whitney's cotton gin. "Dey pulls de lint through de little holes in a grate like dis. See, de cotton seeds be too big to pass through dese holes here, so de lint, it be pulled away. I could make a machine dat would do de same job for you, Massa, but it would be some different. I can't make one exactly de same as dis one be."

"How long would it take you to make another one?" Macon said. It took everything in him to control his excitement."That is, to make a new machine that works?"

Caleb scratched his head. "If I gets de pieces I need . . . If I works all through de night . . . If I can bend de wire teeth from dis engine back so's dat I can use dem over again . . . maybe by tomorrow in de afternoon."

"If you do that for me, Caleb, I will have Prudie wring the neck on a plump hen and I will have her roast the whole thing just for you!" Macon cried. "And I will have her make the sweetest cake you ever tasted that you can eat after you finish the chicken!"

Macon was out the door hollering for Wiatt to get the carriage ready immediately. As soon as it was brought around, Macon jumped inside.

"To the Heyward House!" he called to the carriage driver."As fast as your horses can go!"

Charleston's elite was a wealthy group. They had grown so in trade and by making money loans and in crop plantations and with slaves. They all knew each other—indeed, most were intertwined by birth and marriage—and they were united in values as well. Macon Waymon did not really fit in.Actually, Samuel Shaw didn't, either. But both expected to do so very soon.

"Macon!" Samuel Shaw exclaimed as his friend and partner was ushered over to his side. "I did not expect to see you tonight."

"Samuel, I must meet Thomas Heyward," Macon said."Right away, if you please. It really is quite important."

"I only just met him myself," Samuel said. "I cannot—"

"It is a matter of utmost urgency," Macon insisted. "Please.Surely you can introduce me to him!"

Samuel gestured in the direction of a rather plain-looking gentleman with a long face and no wig on his brown hair. He leaned against a most opulent mantelpiece, and was deeply engrossed in conversation with a tall man with a thick shock of red hair dressed in a fine evening suit.

Macon Waymon placed a smile on his face and headed toward the evening's host.

"Stop!" Samuel insisted. "You cannot just walk up unannounced to a man of such wealth and standing! It would be in the worst possible of tastes."

Macon paid him no mind.

"Macon, please," Samuel pleaded. "Tonight is an important evening for me. Do not make a fool of yourself. I beg of you—"

But Macon had already pushed his way past the other guests. He stepped right up to the mantle.

". . . and I do thank you for taking my humble request into account," the red-haired man said. "To own a copy of our country's Declaration of Independence, especially with your signature at the bottom, would be an indescribable honor for me."

"Not at all, Mister Williamson," Thomas Heyward said. "It shall be my gift to you."

"Mister Heyward?" Macon said as courteously as he could manage. He bowed first to Heyward and then to Williamson."I do apologize for interjecting myself into your personal conversation, but I have a most pressing matter I wish to discuss with you. Would this be an appropriate time to do so?"

Pace Williamson thanked Thomas Heyward once again for his graciousness and generosity, and promptly excused himself.

"Do forgive me, sir," Macon said, "but may I be so bold as to impose upon you a somewhat delicate question of the law? Here is the situation that confronts me . . ."

When Samuel saw that Macon's interruption did not cause a complete social disaster, he did his best to make his way over and join in on the conversation. But people stopped him to talk, and he felt he must not be rude. More people blocked the way, and he felt he must not be overly aggressive toward them. Still others had questions for him, and he felt he most certainly could not allow those questions to go unanswered.

When Macon Waymon at last looked Mister Shaw's way, he called out, "Samuel! Do come and join us!"

Thomas Heyward smiled politely and congratulated Samuel on his willingness to participate in public service.

But Macon cut their courteous comments short.

"Our troubles are over, and it is all due to the diligent efforts of Judge Heyward," he announced to Samuel. "My slave Caleb is right now at work on his own version of Eli Whitney's cotton gin. It will not be exactly the same as Whitney's, however, and due to that happy circumstance, it will qualify as a 'new'invention. We will owe Mister Whitney not one penny for its use."

"Surely Eli Whitney will sue us!" Samuel exclaimed.

"Surely he will," said Macon. "But it makes not the least bit of difference. Because, according to Judge Heyward, the way the new patent act passed just this year is worded, Mister Whitney cannot win such a suit."

"Is that true?" Samuel asked Thomas Heyward.

"It is," said Mister Heyward.

"By tomorrow morning, we will have our own cotton gin," Macon said. "And we will own it free and clear!"

F
or almost two weeks, Benjamin Stevens had started and ended each day standing watch on the rise outside Zulina fortress. From there he could stare down the road toward the villages. Every day he had waited and watched. Every day he had squinted his dimming blue eyes into the relentless African sun. And every day he saw the same thing—an empty road stretched out before him.

"This infernal delay is Lingongo's fault!" Benjamin fretted."A conniving witch, that's what she is."

Despite the delay, Benjamin had made up his mind that under no circumstances would he agree to Lingongo's proposed changes in the terms of their trade agreement. Why should he? No other slave trader would offer her and her brother, King Obei, so favorable a market for their African captives.Captain John Conant, whose ship lay at anchor in the harbor, would simply have to wait.

Yet, as the days wore on, Benjamin's resolve began to weaken.

It was Jonah, Benjamin's head slave, who finally caught sight of the human train as it wound up the road. Jonah whooped at the sight and ran to find Benjamin to shout out the news.

"They be comin', Master," Jonah hollered, "The new slaves right now be comin' along the road!"

Benjamin Stevens rushed out to meet the human train. But his elation was short-lived.

Many scores of prime men and women, all from villages hitherto untouched by slavers. That's what Princess Lingongo had promised him. Hundreds of captives, and all top quality.But what Benjamin saw dragging into the compound was something else entirely—a coffle of no more than a dozen skinny, worn-out men and women barely able to stand on their feet, and a sprinkling of exhausted children. The bedraggled captives—metal collars around their necks by which they were all chained together—could barely stand up.

Benjamin ran his hand through his tousled gray hair and shook with fury.

"Go fetch Princess Lingongo!" he ordered Jonah.

"Yes, Master," the slave said, and he took off at a run.

One English slave ship waited in the harbor. One single ship. Yet that ship could hold over three hundred slaves if they were tight packed. The problem was, Captain Conant had reached the end of his patience. He had long since outfitted his ship for a full load of slaves, and it was fully supplied.Since the ship had actually been designed to transport goods rather than people, and because two legs of the triangular slave trade involved crates of textiles and bales of cotton and barrels of molasses, he'd had to carefully plan and refit in order to accomplish this, but it was done.

By the time Princess Lingongo arrived at Zulina, the captives had all been securely chained to posts outside.

"So few of them!" Benjamin accused. He pointed his finger to one after the other after the other. "Why so few? And what took them so long to get here?"

The princess, resplendent in one of the royal kente robes in which she always bedecked herself, gazed haughtily at Benjamin.

"Why so few?" she asked back. "Why so long? Because the white man has already taken so many of our people away from the coastland, that is why. Our warriors must go deeper and deeper into the jungles to search out villages that have not already been ripped apart. Perhaps you do not realize that African villagers do not give up their freedom willingly. They fight back, and they fight hard. So they are wounded. Our warriors fasten them in chains. The captives must march from their home all the way to the coast—a long and difficult walk.If you doubt that, you may accompany the warriors on the next raid. You will see that the trail is marked with the bones of those who did not survive. Perhaps then you will understand why so few and why so long."

Benjamin Stevens's face hardened. "I know the process," he said. "I also know that I need four hundred good captives.Just as you promised me."

"We can only give you what we ourselves can get," Princess Lingongo replied. "Just as you can only give us what you can get."

Benjamin understood her perfectly. The first day of their alliance, Princess Lingongo had informed him that she and her brother would only accept guns and gunpowder in exchange for their captives. They would no longer take bolts of cloth or beads or whiskey, which were common for such trades.They would not even accept iron bars. Guns and gunpowder.Nothing else. Because only guns and gunpowder had the capability to bestow power on their people.

Of course, Benjamin was no fool. He was well aware that too many guns and too much gunpowder in the hands of an African king could well be a threat to him. So with each purchase, he forced the Africans to accept less firepower and more cloth, or iron bars, or whiskey. When the princess challenged him, Benjamin had told her: "I can only give you what I can get."

Benjamin Stevens glared straight into Princess Lingongo's dark eyes. "Perhaps other African kings and warlords will be able to give me what I want," he said.

Princess Lingongo stared back just as hard. "Perhaps they will," she replied.

Benjamin waited for Princess Lingongo's eyes to pull away from his, but they did not. Nor did so much as a tiny flinch crease her beautiful face.

"Children!" Captain Conant sneered. "You assured me I would have a ship filled with top-grade slaves, Stevens. For a fortnight now I have waited here to receive what you promised, and now you offer me half-dead children!"

"I see plenty of strong men here, John," Benjamin answered with a wave of his hand. "And supple young women, too. You will get your money's worth. That I can guarantee you."

"Where is the rest of my shipload?" the captain demanded."Can you guarantee me that?"

"More captives are on the way," Benjamin assured him. "By the time this batch is securely chained in your ship's hold, the others will be ready."

With a grumble and a grunt, Captain Conant spat out an offer for the pitiful group. Although it was disappointingly low, and although Benjamin Stevens had no idea where he would get the extra bodies to fill the ship, he shook Captain Conant's hand in agreement.

"Rhoda!" Benjamin Stevens bellowed as he stomped back into his house. "Rhoda, where are you?"

When no answer came, Benjamin went in search of his house slave. He found her out back, building up the kitchen fire.

"Did you not hear me calling out to you?" Benjamin demanded.

"I heard you," the slave said.

"When I call your name, I expect an immediate answer from you!"

"My name is not Rhoda," said the slave. "It is Muco."

In spite of himself, Benjamin trembled with fury.

"You are my slave, so you will be called whatever I determine to call you."

"My name is Muco."

"I informed you that henceforth you would be called Rhoda.When I call you Rhoda, you will answer me!"

The slave stared defiantly into Benjamin's eyes. "Call me what you want to call me," she said. "I will answer to my name, which is Muco."

Benjamin's face flushed hot and his hands clenched into tight fists. But when he saw the loathing in his slave's black eyes, he breathed deeply and stepped back.

In every circumstance, however it might challenge him, Benjamin Stevens congratulated himself on his ability to think clearly and act with purpose. How was it that everything suddenly seemed to be slipping from his grasp?

No villages left where slave catchers could find decent captives? Impossible! Benjamin Stevens needed Captain Conant's slave payment, in fine British gold crowns, in order to complete his new house, and he would not get it without the slaves. Now his slave chose this moment to stand against him. He could have her whipped for such impertinence, and no civilized man would blame him. He could even have her killed! Surely she knew that, and yet this slave woman dared stand against him over something as ridiculous as the choice of her name!

Unfair! Exceedingly unfair!
everything inside Benjamin screamed.
I am the master of Zulina! My word is law!

Yet, because he was a temperate man, even in his fury he took a deep breath and turned away from his slave's glower.

"I shall take my supper in my study," he said. "Rhoda."

"Today is the day I throw your wretched Africans off my ship and into the sea," Captain Conant informed Benjamin."I have wasted two weeks of fair skies and calm seas, yet still I see no evidence of the young men with muscles or beautiful young wenches you promised me."

That very same day Princess Lingongo approached Benjamin. "My brother the king sent our warriors deep into the heart of Africa, to distant villages many days' journey from the coast. He sent them to places not yet spoiled by slavers, where the people do not know to run away. The talking drums say their caravan is vast and rich with captives, and that it is but one day away. My brother the king requires assurance that you are prepared to pay for the slaves in guns and gunpowder alone."

Benjamin Stevens clenched his jaw and said yes, he was prepared to meet the king's terms. The princess's terms.

What does it matter?
Benjamin asked himself.
Captain Conant will pay me a handsome price for the slaves. So what does it matter if I must bow to Lingongo? Once again?

The sun sank low over the savanna. The rainy season had come early, but the rainfall was discouragingly light. Benjamin Stevens mopped his face with his handkerchief and longed for the fog of London. After almost a quarter of a century in Africa, he was weary of being hot and weary. He was exhausted and exasperated with his efforts to pretend to cooperate with Lingongo and her fool of a brother.

"Rhoda!" Benjamin called as he opened the door. "Bring me my dinner."

No answer.

Rage rose up in him like a blaze of fire. Benjamin slammed the door and bolted through to the back of the house. He kicked a straight-backed chair aside and grabbed up his horse whip.

"Rhoda!" Benjamin bellowed as he thundered out behind the house. When he saw the slave, he roared, "You
will
answer me when I call for you!"

"My name is Muco," she said, her voice flat and her face expressionless.

"You are my slave and I say your name is Rhoda!"

Benjamin brought the whip slashing down across her back.

"What is your name?" Benjamin demanded.

"Muco," said the slave.

The whip ripped through the air and slashed across her cheek and down her arms. The calabash shell in her hand crashed to the ground.

"What is your name, slave?"

The slave struggled to her feet. She wiped the blood from her mouth and, as best she could, said, "Muco."

Benjamin screamed out his fury. He raised the whip again and again.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

The slave tried to rise, but instead she fell flat. She tried again and succeeded in pushing herself up to her knees. She fixed her eyes on Benjamin and said, "Muco. My name is Muco."

Benjamin's blinding fury faded just enough for him to see the cold hard revulsion in the eyes of the black woman on her knees before him. Her bloody jaw was clamped tight, and her eyes never wavered from his.

Benjamin gasped and shrank back. The slave's blind strength of will forced him back to that horrible day at Zulina fortress. He had seen the same look in the eyes of the rebels who would not quit.