25

THE NEW YEAR, 1777, arrived. It was a year, as someone said, that had three gallows in its name.

It took me a week—the first week of the year—to earn what I thought was the necessary money to bribe my way back into the sugarhouse.

So it was on a Sunday afternoon, after we had gone to services at St. Paul’s Church, that Mother filled my handbasket with bread, some meat, and a clay jar of water. At the bottom of the basket lay all the money we had been able to put aside.

The day was much like the others we had been experiencing that early January; rock cold and blustery. Now and again snow swirled, like goose feathers dumped from a pillow. Above, the iron-gray sky hung low. Streets were deserted. The only sound was the munch of snow beneath my boots, like breaking bones.

I had bundled myself as best I could, woolen cape held tight about my throat, cap pulled down, hands so chilled I kept switching them to carry the basket. On my cape, the ribbon of allegiance. Red, I thought, red with shame. Oh, Desperation, your other name is Deception.

As I approached the sugarhouse, I was hoping the guard with whom I had dealt before would be there. I was not to be disappointed. Even from afar, I recognized his thin, gangly form. I went right to him.

“A good morning to you, sir.”

As if he had been in a doze, he started.

“Do you remember me, sir?” I said. “You helped me find my prisoner brother the other day.”

“Wondered if you’d come back.”

I held up the basket. “I’ve brought some food for him and if—”

He cut me off. “He’s no longer here.”

“But where—?”

“I saw him led off to the Good Intent.”

“Forgive me, sir. I don’t know your meaning.”

“He’s on a prison ship. In Hudson’s River.”

“But you said, ‘the good intent.’”

“A two-masted square rigger. The Good Intent is her name. Turned her into a prison ship.”

“You jest.”

“There’s no humor in me, miss.”

I stood there in a state of disbelief. “Can I visit this ship?”

“Don’t know. She’s just off the King’s Wharf. It’ll take money.”

I stood unmoving for a while, dumbfounded, angry, and tormented, all of which rendered me incapable of deciding what to do. Except the aching need to do something.

Next moment I whirled about, and with my momentary fury providing me some heat, I clutched my basket and started west and north, toward Hudson’s River.

The King’s Wharf lay at the foot of Partition Street, somewhat north of where the Jersey Ferry used to run. To get there I had to walk through the burnt ruins of the city fire. In many places, people had patched together crude huts from salvaged timbers and discarded sails, so there were a fair number of tents. The area had even begun to be called “canvas town.” It was here that many of the freedom-seeking slaves were forced to live.

Threads of rising smoke suggested little fires for small warmth and cooking. No doubt they used charred remains for fuel. The city was devouring itself.

The King’s Wharf jutted into the river. Coils of rope, barrels, baskets, and crates lay about in no order. A rusty and cracked cannon lay on its side. Ships of various sizes—I noticed a sloop and schooner, plus one frigate—were tied to the wharf. Even as I stood there, the wharf creaked and groaned like a sick man.

Beyond lay the wide Hudson’s River. In the glumming, Jersey was barely visible. Against the New York shore, clumps of mottled, grit-encrusted ice had formed, while farther out larger chunks floated by like deformed and filthy swans. I wondered if the whole river would freeze, as sometimes happened.

Anchored in the river were more ships, which, by their cannon ports, I knew to be ships of war. Others I supposed were transports. I did see a two-masted brig, which appeared to be in ill repair. I wondered if it was the Good Intent, though its appearance dressed it to the contrary. To my eyes, the whole scene was composed of multiple shades of mumpish gray, devoid of any warmth of life, a corpse-colored landscape.

As I approached the dock, I saw several soldiers seated on boxes. These boxes had been set round a large iron kettle, from which, as if some demon were being cooked, fingers of flickering flames reached up.

The soldiers, their ruddy faces reflecting the hellish glow, held out their hands as if to grasp those fiery fingers. Nearby, their muskets stood upright like a gathering of frozen stalks of Indian corn.

I removed the money from the bottom of the basket and put it into a pocket so I could reach it with ease. Then, shivering from cold and raw emotions, my breath a dead mist before my lips, I approached the soldiers. I had to stand off awhile before one of the soldiers even bothered to consider me.

“What say you, miss? You selling something?” He gestured to the basket I was clutching tightly.

“No, sir. It’s the prison ship. The Good Intent. If it can be visited, I should like to.”

“Why?”

“My brother’s on it.”

The soldiers eyed one another mutely, as if needing to react together.

A soldier asked, “What makes you sure he’s on it?”

“I was told by a guard at the Crown Street sugarhouse.”

“Is your brother still alive?”

“God a mercy, sir!”

The soldier shrugged. “They die a lot.”

“Heaved off like frozen logs,” added another.

“I’m sure he’s alive,” I insisted. When no one spoke, I said, “Is there anyone that can take me?”

“It costs.”

“I know, sir.”

“If you think its cold here, it’s worse there.”

Another said, “Anyway, it’s growing late. There’s not much time.”

“Please, sirs. It’s my brother.”

“What do you have in the basket?” said another.

“Food.”

“Willing to be searched, miss?”

“Yes, sir.”

They didn’t.

One of the soldiers shifted round. “Your brother, you say. How old are you?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“I have a sister near that age. I wish she’d come for me.”

“I beg you, sirs.”

No one moved. I just stood there. Then the soldier who had last spoken—who had a sister—stood up with a grunt. “Come along.”

“How much shall I give you?”

“Just come,” he growled.

I followed.