“I’m not feeling too well,” Jordan finally said. “Tell your parents sorry.” He spun his wife around and was out the door before Ester could count to twenty-one.
She heard the cane tapping, getting louder behind her.
By himself, Papa came and stood by her side. “We…back before…time to cut the cake. Before midnight.
Yes, they had to have Bex with them before midnight, or at least by five past. Then their life together wouldn’t just be a dream Ester had every night. It would be a wish come true.
…
Men packed the bottom level of the White Horse Cellar. Not a table up front was empty, but Arthur found a seat in the back. Covered by the low tallow light and his heavy greatcoat, he sat, wondering why he had come.
Yet, when Wilberforce offered his impassioned plea of the rights of every human, Arthur lifted his head and nodded in agreement. Just because he had failed didn’t make the cause of abolition a failure.
Wilberforce raised a shaking hand to his face, cupping his eyes. “You’ve heard my words, the ones of a man who is still in the fight, but now let’s hear from a younger man. Arthur Bex, come forward.”
The cheers stopped, and silence filled the cellar for exactly ten seconds. Then the boos started and lit a fire all the way around.
Arthur tried to rise, but his feet had turned to lead. He coughed and wiped at his face.
“Come on, Bex. Tell ’em.” It was Jonesy. The boy must’ve snuck away from watching Bex’s phaeton. So much for his one night in service as a groom.
The naysaying buzzed, thick like smoke in a warehouse, or like shouts against a boy testifying about murder. Arthur knew what was right, even if he was the only one. He had to do what was right. That meant he needed to stop hiding, to stand his ground and fight.
Now or never.
Arthur stood and moved through the crowd. He came to the chair that was being used as a stage. He leaped onto it and waved his arms and stared down the loudest accuser until all had quieted like an audience at Covent Gardens. “The stakes have never been higher. You must choose what’s right, what’s true.”
“Sit down, son of a slaver.”
The comment silenced the room. No doubt, everyone waited to see how Arthur would respond, but he hesitated.
“Bex was the slaver captain’s nephew, and Bex tried to stop the atrocities. What haveyoudone?” The voice was Phineas’s, and it breathed new air into the Cellar’s stench.
“Who in here is not related to a thief, a liar, or a slaver?” Arthur’s voice took command of the stage, making everyone go still. “If one in here can say yes, then you’ve deceived yourself. You’ve lied to yourself. No one is clean. We’re all steeped in some secret sin.”
His voice boomed. The echo of it rippled across the quieted faces.
He raised his hands, becoming Antony sending his men to battle and Macduff slaying Macbeth’s evil minions. “Brothers, I’ve been ridiculed in all the papers, but I’m not the fight, just a speck of dust. Enslavement is a cobweb which sticks to every Englishman. The newspapers don’t decry the chains cast on our brothers. They discuss the loss of coins from theZhonda. If they could show you the chained men stacked like fish for the lure of guineas, then you would know. As the nephew of a slaver—theworstslaver—I’ve seen it. I saw proud men, proud brothers locked in heavy iron chains, thrown to their deaths. If you saw it, if you’d known the evil, you’d join me in the fight.”
“You should know.” The snicker lofted above the silent crowd.
“You turned on your uncle and let him be killed over cargo. The slaves were cargo. They endangered the crew. Crew comes first.”
Arthur was losing them, but he’d not be stopped. “Brothers—”
“Crew come first. Crew come first. Lying actors last.” It was a handful, not the whole room, but the angry voices were loud.
“Cargo doesn’t scream. Cargo doesn’t gasp for air as the weight of chains drags them to the bottom. Cargo isn’t a man. Murder’s not how you treat a brother.”
“Traitor,” one man said. “You got your flesh-and-blood uncle hanged.”
“Doesn’t murder require justice?” The woman’s voice was low but grew louder. “Who’d not want justice for the killing of an uncle or brother?”
The shy voice silenced the crowd.
Ester? Ester’s voice had done it.
She was in the back of the room, standing by her father. “Would any of you want your uncle to die, chains wrapped around him, tossed overboard to drown? TheZhonda’screw did thatfiftytimes. Fifty murders witnessed by a young boy, a nephew who had the courage to try and stop evil. Who among you is that strong? None. But you sit in chairs or read papers and you mock him for doing what is right.”
