Voyage of Midnight Read Online Free PDF

a pleasantry while I stood by awkwardly.
    “Emmanuel, may I introduce my nephew, Philip,” said Uncle.
    The man’s hands were hot and sticky. I said, “Good to meet you, sir,” and he ordered cool drinks all about.
    Presently we sat upon the rattan chairs on the veranda, surrounded by slaves who served drinks and aired us with fans. My first sight of slaves had been on the day I’d arrived in New Orleans. Since then I’d seen many members of the dusky-hued race, most especially when I’d fill a prescription for their masters. As I relaxed on the veranda, I admitted to myself that these slaves both frightened and fascinated me. They were well formed, silent, padding about on their bare feet and serving all our wishes before we even asked. I wondered what they thought of their fat, sweating master; of my swarthy, earringed uncle; of pop-eyed, yellow-faced Jonas; and of me, pale little Philip.
    Truthfully, I’d never given slavery much thought (being much too busy with my own life), believing only that rich people owned slaves, while poor people didn’t.
    For the next hour, Mr. Fitch and Uncle discussed business. The loading of the equipment. The goods and trinkets for trade—colored cottons, glazed beads, brass bracelets, tobacco, bells, kegs of gunpowder and rum. The necessary provisions and supplies. Where the best cargoes were to be found. Places to avoid—African rivers where there was bound to be trouble of one kind or another. The top bargaining price allowed per slave. The expected date of return…
    Flies droned about my sweet drink. The breeze from the bird-feather fan ruffled my hair, cooling my sweating scalp. The slave boy operating the fan shifted from one foot to the other. My eyelids drooped.
    “Do you like him?”
    It took me a moment to realize someone was talking to me. It was Mr. Fitch. “I said, do you like him?”
    I cleared my throat. “Like whom?”
    “The slave boy. His name’s Pea Soup. He’s your age.”
    Well formed and muscular, Pea Soup was staring at the floor, his face impassive, still moving the fan. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. I like him very much,” I said, wondering what Mr. Fitch meant by this.
    “Would you like to have him?”
    The astonishment must’ve shown in my face, because he chuckled, along with Jonas, whose now-familiar laugh sounded like the braying of a donkey. Uncle watched me sharply.
    “I’m serious, young fellow,” continued Mr. Fitch, once he’d caught his breath. “If you like him, you can have him. Consider him my gift to you, in gratefulness for your uncle’s friendship and business acumen.”
    “Well, I—”
    “Go ahead,” urged Uncle. “It’s a valued gift. You should be honored.”
    “Then I accept,” I said, breaking into a smile, touched by Mr. Fitch’s generosity. Surely he was a very rich man! “And I
am
honored.”
    “Excellent!” cried Mr. Fitch. “Fresh drinks all around!”
    And soon we were clinking our glasses together, toasting one another’s health. I glanced at Pea Soup, wondering if he understood what had just occurred—that he belonged to me now. But he still stared at the same place on the floor, his face unchanged, moving the fan.
    Up. Down. Up. Down.

T hroughout that long voyage across the Atlantic from Cuba to Africa, I liked to stand at the bow, with spray dashing over the cutwater, our sails full and tight, and imagine the fortunes I’d gather.
    I was no longer the poor orphan boy without a halfpenny to his name and with just a mouthful of food in his belly, wearing only rags. I no longer toiled eighteen hours a day doing someone else’s bidding, coughing up moss dust while someone else became rich and laid a cane across my back.
    No, I was
Master
Philip Arthur Higgins now. I had a family and owned a personal servant. I was on my way to ship a cargo of slaves and become rich. And for the first time in my life, I’d receive payment for my own labor, sail the world as I fancied,