Demerara, October 1824
Holding Mary’s hand, I stand on the rail of the sloop watching Demerara grow bigger and the water change from blue to green to brownish white.
The heat sticks to me. My short copper-colored sleeves are plastered to my arms.
As the weather has warmed, we’ve changed from our heavy clothes to simple muslin gowns. I love the dry heat on this side of the sea.
Though I have a copy of the decree, Lord Bathurst used his admiralty to send word directly to Lieutenant Governor Murray to abolish the tax. I hear the foul man was removed from office in April.
That’s good, for I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to gloat. There’s no need to test the fragility of an old man’s ego.
Missing home presses my soul. For the first time in a long time I don’t feel like everything will be taken away.
Lucy Van Den Velden struts up to my side. “Mrs. Thomas, thank you for helping me return to Demerara.”
“You need to see your father. You need to get things settled right.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”
I nod and turn back to Mary. She’s staring at the water like Crissy always did. My youngest daughter says she and the major are in love, but they still haven’t married. That won’t end well.
“GaMa, I hear music.”
My eyes shut. My pulse explodes. The transport of slaves on those frigates is supposed to be no more. I don’t want to see men and women on decks forced to sing.
“GaMa, it’s pretty.” Mary’s tugging my skirt hard. “GaMa.”
With a mouthful of salty air, I let myself see. I look to the left.
No slave ships.
Then I let myself hear.
The rhythm is slow and sweet, cresting over the waves reaching me. It’s singers on the dock. My Irish hymn has more rhythm. It has drums and bits of Twi in the refrain.
I take Mary, and we twirl and dance until the boat anchors.
When we climb onto the dock, my son Harry is there with his wife. He did marry that widow.
“Welcome home, Mama. Well done.” He kisses my cheek, then picks up Mary and tosses her onto his shoulder and then gives her to the awaiting arms of her happy mother, my dear Charlotte.
“Why are they playing music, girl? What’s the occasion?”
“It’s for you, Mama.” Charlotte hugs my neck. “You’re the hero today.”
I look out at the jubilant crowd. It’s all my family and friends, cheering.
Rebecca Ritchie and her daughter are right up front.
My Eliza, Ann, Frances, and Mamaí and the scores of grands and great-grands are all here.
Mary Ostrehan comes up to me. “On behalf of the Entertainment Society, we would like to give you this silver plate to commemorate your leadership. You made change happen for us.”
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to say. I stand there ready to cry, ready to laugh and sing.
The plate shines. It’s stars for my eyes. I hold it up and hope the sun catches it and gives dreams to everyone.
Polk is with the musicians. Good old Polk. That must mean he’s back from Barbados with Cells.
Scanning the crowd again, I don’t see Coseveldt.
Harry nudges me. “Come on, Mama. Say something.”
My shoulders shrug. “I’m happy to help. Thank you all. Thank you for your friendship and love.”
Walking and stopping for hugs and kisses, I hold this plate to my chest. It will go somewhere special. This silver is strong and unbreakable. That has to say something about this sisterhood of women.
I move a little deeper into the crowd, and I see Catharina. She’s here, and she’s clapping for me.
Hugging and kissing her, I wrinkle the black crepe of her dress. Another glance at the crowd, and I see no black hat.
My heart seizes.
I didn’t get to tell him good-bye. I didn’t tell Cells thank you. Or anything that matters.
Catharina clutches my arm. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
“Are Simon and the children . . . Are they all well?” My voice is breaking.
“Yes. They’re at Werk-en-Rust with Father. He’s back from Barbados.”
Coseveldt is alive. There’s another chance?
Pulling her into a big embrace, I kiss her forehead. “Then why the black drape?”
“It’s the finest thing I own, Mama. I wanted to look good for you.”
I kiss her brow again. “You are beautiful, and you are loved.”
When I release her, I offer my crying child a handkerchief from my reticule. The embroidered linen is right there next to my papers. I’ll never leave the house without them, but I hope one day I might not dread being without them.
“Catharina, tell your father that I want him to come to supper and to bring his hat. Tell him I have a place to put it after all. I’m not afraid anymore.”
The poor girl squints at me. She must think I’m crazed, but I’m happy. I have more time. “Tell him. He’ll understand.”
“Papa didn’t come because he wanted you to have this moment. He needed it to be about you, and you alone. He said you’d know what that means.”
I did, and it’s wonderful.
“Supper tonight. Let him know.”
My people surround me. We hum and sing of peace all the way home.