A Distant Magic (28 page)

Jean asked the same question she'd asked twenty years before.
"Do you have books about slavery and abolition? Perhaps accounts by former
slaves?"

Smythe beamed. "We have as fine a selection of such titles as any bookseller in London. In fact, I've set up a display." He led her to one of the front tables, where several dozen books were stacked.
"Ignatius Sancho's
Letters
are extremely popular. The author was
born on a slave ship in the mid-Atlantic as his parents were being transported
to the Americas. Later he came to England. His story is most compelling."

He placed a copy in Jean's hands. "If you haven't a copy already, you might also enjoy Phillis Wheatley's
Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral.
The book has been out for a dozen years, but it remains very popular. She is an
American slave who showed such quickness that her mistress had her educated. She
has even visited London and was much acclaimed for her intelligence and
sensibility."

Jean looked at the poems, then added the book to Sancho's
Letters.
"I was looking for exactly such books. What else do you have?"

"I have tracts by the American Anthony Benezet as well as the work of our own Granville Sharp and the Reverends John Wesley and James Ramsay." He spoke like a man who had read the books in question, and agreed with the contents.

Jean looked at each book Smythe produced, then added it to her pile, trying to conceal her excitement. Twenty years earlier, there had been almost no publications about slavery or abolition. There had been an explosion of interest in the subject since then.

As Jean was paying for her purchases, Mr. Smythe said, "Do check
back with us soon, madam. Any day now, we will be receiving a new book written
by a female former slave. The printer said that it's very powerful. He has
received more advance subscriptions for the title than for anything else he has
ever published."

A half-grown girl emerged from the back carrying a basket of books.
"Papa, you said to bring these up as soon as they arrived."

"Just in time!" Smythe exclaimed. "Here is the volume I was speaking of, madam.
My Journey to Faith and Freedom
by An African Princess." He opened one of the copies and began reading it himself.

Jean opened the book and saw that it had been published by James Phillips, the Quaker printer whom she'd learned about from Adia's notes. She flipped to the first page and stiffened with shock.
"I'll take this one, too."

Because of the number of books she'd bought, Mr. Smythe himself carried her purchases in a basket to her inn. She thanked him, then raced upstairs. She couldn't wait to tell Nikolai what she'd discovered.

Nikolai found the coffeehouse talk exceptionally interesting, so it was late afternoon when he returned to the inn. He went straight to Jean's adjoining room. When he entered, he found her reading by the window.

As she glanced up, he said exuberantly, "Jean, the world has
changed greatly in twenty years. Men were discussing the slave trade when I came
in, and almost everyone present was against it. There was a slave ship officer
who tried to say that the trade was kindly and essential, and whenever he spoke,
he was heckled down. The subject is now one that average men feel passionately
about."

"I found the same thing at the bookseller's." Jean gestured to the stacked volumes on the table beside her.
"There were a number of books and pamphlets written against the slave trade, and several accounts written by former slaves. Including this one written by An African Princess." She handed him the volume she was reading.
"Look."

He glanced at the engraving of a handsome African woman in the front.
"Good God, it's Adia! Why didn't she mention that she'd written a book?" A thought struck him.
"Could she have lied and told us another woman's story? She might have read this
book and used the information to deceive us. But why?"

"I think Adia did write this, but not in her early years in London before she left her own time and came to us," Jean said slowly.
"She must have written the book on Santola after we left. But if so, why was it
only published now?"

"Perhaps it took her thirty years to write. Or it took that long to find a publisher." Nikolai frowned.
"Or perhaps she held it back so it could be published now, when public support
for abolition is growing."

"So she is living in London right now but probably she doesn't know about her book because in her personal time, she hasn't written it yet. I'm sure she would have told us if she had written it before she came back in time." Jean made a face.
"Whenever I think about traveling through time, I feel a headache coming on."

"Better not to think of it," he advised as he paged through the book.

"From what the bookseller said, her story will sell very well. I'm sure her family will welcome the money." Jean sighed.
"No doubt Adia made arrangements for them to benefit even if she herself can
never return to them."

Nikolai gave her a quick glance, hearing her own wistful hopes. "Perhaps the ancestors will help her to return, for she is serving them well." He glanced down at the book.
"I see that she has changed some of the names, but the events are very detailed
and convincing."

"And some are horrific," Jean said softly.

He reached the description of Adia's rape when she was little more than a child. There were few details, but emotion raged under the words.
"Someday slavery will end," He closed the book, his expression grim. "And you
and I and Adia will have done our share in ending it."

Chapter
THIRTY

K
ofi had scarcely changed at all in twenty years, apart from a few white hairs mixed with the black. He accepted the appearance of Nikolai and Jean calmly.
"I had wondered if I would see you again. I see the time magic still works."

"Yes, and we still need help," Nikolai said ruefully. "We have
accomplished our mission, and it's time to unleash the next spell. Can you aid
us again?"

The older man nodded. "My daughter has grown into a powerful
priestess. Together, we should be enough when joined with your power. Are you
ready now?"

They had brought their small packs of possessions and wore their nondescript traveling clothes just in case. It took only a few minutes to arrange for the ritual. Kofi's daughter Mary was a slim girl with skin the color of caramel. Like her father, she glowed with power. She already knew their mission, so explanations were unneeded.

The circle was sealed, Nikolai and Jean held the bead between their palms, the energy was called—and once more they were pulled through time.

Perhaps the process was a little easier. But not much.

They landed in a gray-skied gale. Nikolai gasped as a blast of wind tore at his hat. He captured it with one hand while maintaining his grip on Jean with the other.

"Now, this is jolly," she said breathlessly. "Do you have any idea
where we are?"

He glanced up at wet warehouses. "I smell the sea, so this can't be London." He stretched out his perception to learn more about the location.
"There is a poisonous feel to this place—as if the devil and his demons are
holding a party. Do you feel it?"

Jean's expression went blank as she turned to inner sight.
"This place was built on blood and suffering."

"It was." He took her arm and they began to walk toward the water.
"My guess is that we're in one of the west-coast slave ports—Bristol or
Liverpool. Probably Liverpool, since it seems more northerly."

Their street ended at the waterfront. A fresh blast of wind might have knocked Jean over if Nikolai hadn't been holding her. She clutched at her cloak with her free arm.
"More than any other city, Liverpool's wealth is built on the slave trade."

"I wonder what our mission is. It sounds as if there is much to be done here." He turned right and they began walking along the waterfront, Jean tucked under his arm. The few others out in the storm were scudding quickly along the streets, heading for warmth and shelter. None of them looked liked they needed the help of time travelers.

"Good Lord. Could that be Thomas Clarkson?" Jean pointed to a tall, lanky figure who was heading out onto a pier. He must have wanted to watch the storm, since there was no work being done.
"He might recognize us, so I suppose we shouldn't approach him. Unless he's in
danger of being blown off the pier."

"Do either of us have any magic that could help in such a case? It would be difficult to fish him out of such rough water," Nikolai observed. He tried to sound unconcerned, but the pervasive dark energy was too intense to ignore.
"To me, this city feels like it contains the evil spirits of Africa come to
steal men's souls."

"Given Liverpool's history with the slave trade, perhaps their
souls have already been taken."

He nodded, feeling so suffocated by the negative energy that he didn't want to talk. As they studied the scene, a group of eight or nine men emerged from a shabby tavern, fighting the wind as they stepped onto the waterfront. One of the group pointed out the lone man on the pier and spoke to his companions. It was impossible to hear the words over the wind, but the group turned purposefully onto the pier. They were halfway out when the man at the end turned and saw them approaching.

"It's Clarkson, all right," Jean said tensely. "And I think
he's going to need help."

Nikolai quickened his step as one of the group began yelling at Clarkson. Though the gale winds made it impossible to hear the words, clearly Clarkson was being threatened. In his black clerical clothes, he looked like a scarecrow being attacked by a mob. Two of the men grabbed Clarkson and began dragging him toward the edge of the pier despite his struggles.

"Dear God!" Jean gasped. "He probably can't swim, and even if he
does, these waves might be impossible!"

Nikolai broke into a run. All around him he could feel the spirit of evil pulsing with rage and hunger for destruction, and the pressure attacked his breathing. Grimly he kept running. Clarkson managed to fight free and almost broke through the sailors, but he was dragged down again. His attackers began kicking as they shouted insults.
"Meddlin' bastard! Teach 'im to mind 'is own business!"

Protecting his head, Clarkson managed to roll away from the kicks and stagger to his feet, but he was too badly outnumbered to have a chance. He was being dragged toward the water again when Nikolai exploded into the group.

This time he felt no restraint in his attack, using fists and feet and magic to knock out Clarkson's attackers. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jean arrive. Her image was blurred by some kind of magical shield, and he could feel his gaze sliding away. If not for his own magic, he would never have seen her latch onto Clarkson and haul him to his feet, then guide him away, taking half his weight on her own slim shoulders.

The sailors were fighting back, but their alcohol-fueled rage was no match for Nikolai. He had knocked the last down and was ready to drag the leader to the edge of the pier when a voice in his head cried,
"No!"

He hesitated as cool clarity rushed through him, countering his hot rage. He had been caught up in the spirit of destruction, he realized. His goals might be different from those of the bullies who had attacked Clarkson, but the rage for destruction had been the same.

He clenched his fists and turned away, shaking. The voice of his ancestors, which sounded just like his grandmother, had pulled him back from the brink. He invoked light to push the dark spirit away as he caught up with Jean and Clarkson. He wrapped an arm around the deacon, taking most of the young man's weight as they left the pier.

"There's a tavern on that side street," Jean said. "He
needs time to recover."

Nikolai nodded and headed in that direction. Clarkson was walking better now, though his pace was still uneven.
"I must thank you, sir," he said a little unsteadily. He blinked owlishly at Nikolai, then turned to Jean.
"Why, it's Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, I believe! Are you my guardian angels?"

Jean laughed. "No, only abolitionists who happened to show up at the right time." They had reached the tavern, and she opened the door for the two men. The place was shabby but clean, and the few other patrons were quiet and orderly.

After they hung their dripping cloaks on pegs, Nikolai guided Clarkson to a booth while Jean ordered steaming tankards of punch made from hot water, lemon, sugar, and whiskey. As soon as the drinks were delivered, Nikolai took a deep swallow, grateful for the warmth. Next to him, Jean said,
"We've been mostly away from England since we met you, Mr. Clarkson. What have
you done to inspire such fury?"

Clarkson sipped his tankard more slowly, his long fingers clasped around the heated pewter.
"I knew I had angered many people here in Liverpool, but I didn't expect anyone to try to murder me," he said unsteadily.

"I think their assault was the impulse of drunkenness," Jean said.
"Though the results would have been no less fatal."

"One of the men who attacked me is a slave ship officer. I tried to have him charged with murder because he killed a sailor on his ship." Clarkson's mouth curved up without humor.
"Drunk or sober, he'd gladly dance on my grave. This is a city that has grown
fat on the misery of slaves."

"I heard that the two men who owned the slave ship
Zong,
where the captain massacred so many slaves, were both former mayors of Liverpool," Jean said.

"You heard true." Clarkson's intense blue eyes were grim.
"And it is not only slaves who suffer. I have been studying the ship's manifests
at the Custom House, and the results are shocking. On slave voyages, as many
British sailors die as slaves. The officers don't care—dead sailors need no
wages. Yet it is hard to persuade sailors to bear witness against the captains
because they fear for their jobs. The trade is very nearly as destructive to
them as to their unhappy victims."

"You should not be venturing out in the streets without protection," Nikolai said.
"A pistol, a guard, or both."

"Often my friend Falconbridge accompanies me, and he's a stout fellow, but today he was otherwise engaged. He's writing a book on his experiences as physician on several slave voyages." Clarkson sighed, looking more like a man in his thirties than his twenties.
"I do not wish to live like a frightened rabbit, constantly in fear."

"No one does," Jean said softly. "But your life is precious, Mr.
Clarkson. If you die at the hands of ignorant men, it will set the cause back by
years. Perhaps decades."

"I shall bear that in mind." He smiled a little. "The abolition
committee wishes me to return to London. Perhaps, on the way, I shall visit
Manchester. I have heard that new ideas are welcome there."

"Have you considered starting a petition in support of abolition?" Jean suggested.
"If Parliament sees the signatures of thousands of abolitionists, they will
realize that we are a force to be reckoned with."

"The abolition committee has discussed the possibility of petitions. Perhaps Manchester would be the place to begin." His eyes brightened.
"In the two years since I first met you, so much has happened! I translated my
essay, and James Phillips published it. I thank you for sending me to him—his
suggestions were as helpful as his printing press. The book has done very well.
A slow discontent with slavery had been building for years, and suddenly
abolition leaped into flames. My essay helped strike the sparks."

"You mentioned an abolition committee," Nikolai said. "Is that
new?"

Clarkson nodded. "Earlier this year, a dozen of us met at Phillips's print shop and formed an abolition committee. Nine were Quakers, three of us Anglicans." He smiled affectionately.
"One cannot ask for better allies than Quakers. They live and work for their
beliefs."

"How do you hope to achieve your goals?" Jean asked.

"Through the law, of course. We must persuade Parliament to declare the slave trade illegal." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm radiating from him.
"I met a most remarkable man, William Wilberforce. He's only a year older than
I, and already a Member of Parliament. He is a devout Evangelical who believes
abolition is a moral crusade. There is much work to be done, but with men like
Wilberforce in Parliament, surely one day we will succeed."

He accepted a refill of his punch, then began to speak of what he had learned in his research and interviews with those in the slave trade. Nikolai could understand why the ancestors' magic had brought them to Clarkson twice. The man was a powerful and passionate advocate for his cause.

When the storm abated, Nikolai and Jean escorted Clarkson back to his lodgings. Then they went in search of a respectable inn for themselves.
"I'm ready for a nap," Jean said as she covered a yawn. "Traveling
through time and saving lives is tiring."

So was feeling the relentless dark energy that had engulfed Nikolai since their arrival in Liverpool. A nap might help. But he doubted it.

"This is interesting." Jean looked up from the local newspaper she'd bought when they booked rooms at a nearby inn. They had dined well in the private parlor, and now she and Nikolai were reading before retiring for bed. They'd come forward a bit more than two years—no need for new garments this time.

"This whole strange land of yours is interesting." Nikolai glanced up from Adia's book, the only one they'd brought with them.
"What has caught your attention?"

"A by-election was just held to replace a Member of Parliament who
died. The custom in this area is to provide ale to the voters to engage their
loyalty. This time someone decided to save money because he thought the results
of the election were a foregone conclusion. So a different fellow opened up a
few hogsheads of ale and won."

Nikolai grimaced. "This great English democracy is fueled by ale
and bribery?"

"Sadly, yes." She glanced back at the newspaper. "But what caught
my attention is that the newly elected MP is called Captain James Trent. That's
the name of the master of the slave ship that carried Adia to the Indies. He was
also the slave catcher who almost captured her in New York when the American war
ended."

"I wonder if it's the same James Trent? The name doesn't sound
uncommon."

"This Trent is from a prominent family that owns one of the largest shipping lines in Liverpool, and they specialize in slave trading. If he's the same man, that would explain why he captained a slave ship at such a young age." She closed the paper and handed it to Nikolai.
"Tomorrow Trent is sponsoring an ale fest for his supporters to celebrate his
victory."

"Perhaps we should attend," he said thoughtfully. "The event might
not be on the schedule of the ancestors, but it could be educational."

She nodded, wondering if the men who voted for Trent supported slavery, or if they were just grateful for the ale. She wasn't sure which answer she liked less.

By the time Nikolai and Jean reached the market square that was the site of Captain Trent's victory celebration, the crowd was mellow with drink. Nikolai kept Jean well back from the speaking platform that had been erected. He didn't expect the crowd to turn ugly, but drunks were unpredictable. If necessary, the two of them could make a rapid escape down an alley.

A brass band that made up in noise what it lacked in tunefulness played a fanfare while a well-dressed gentleman climbed onto the platform to introduce the new MP. The lengthy discourse on the captain's experiences in the slave trade and the Americas certainly fit Adia's James Trent.