For a second day, standing on the King George’s deck, Blair watched the sun disappear. He sighed. Empty berths were being dismantled, and their space was being taken up by iron bars and bags marked “Wheat.” His disgust at being considered a commodity had given way to shame at not having sparked anyone’s interest. Only two customers remained on the ship, and he tried to project strength and stand tall and steady. He licked his lips and swallowed. He was dying to set foot on land. He was also dying to lie down.
“What’s thy name?” one of the customers—a Quaker—asked. It took every scrap of will for Blair not to scratch his burning scalp; as soon as he had returned to his berth the previous night, lice had crawled back on him.
“Blair Eakins.”
“How old are thee?”
“I’ll be sixteen soon.” And then, the dreaded question: What skills did he have? Blair never imagined that the pride he felt at being an excellent weaver could turn into a feeling of utter unimportance.
“I’m a linen weaver.”
The man nodded, as if he had known the answer. “Let us see thy hands.” Blair ground his teeth at the feel of the man’s fingers prodding his fingers and limbs. When he was told to open his mouth, Blair’s eyes filled with tears, remembering the time he had accompanied his father to buy a horse. Finally, he was asked to walk to the quarterdeck and back. The man stood mulling, hands on hips, then went off to examine someone else. Blair leaned on a cask; the sky was darkening. The only other customer had left. Blair might as well call it a day. He had reached the hatch when he heard his name. Rawle, one of the two men who held his indenture, caught up to him, accompanied by the customer who had just examined him.
“Jeffrey Craig has bought thee,” Rawle announced.
A thrill ran up Blair’s spine; he would finally sleep on land. “Thank ye, Jeffrey Craig.” He knew—after a lifetime of selling linen to Quakers in Lisburn—that both men and women were to be addressed simply by their names.
“The courthouse will be closed for the day,” Rawle continued. “Thy master will retrieve thee early in the morning.”
#
Blair stepped off the gangway onto the dock, delighted to be stepping onto firm land. Strangely, the dock felt anything but firm. He looked down, puzzled, and took a couple of tentative steps. His sea legs sent him stumbling headlong into two men.
“I’m verra sorry!” he exclaimed as Rawle helped steady him.
“Another Scotch-Irish, William Rawle?” one of the men said with distaste.
Another what? Blair thought as Rawle led him away. Blair turned to see the men glaring at him with a resentment he couldn’t understand.
“Must our city be the refuge of the very scum of mankind?” the second man yelled after them.
Blair, Rawle, and Craig climbed into a cart and went up King Street. On their right they passed a seemingly endless row of wharves flanking the river. The other side of the street was lined with houses and boardinghouses, workshops and warehouses. There were throngs of people both on foot and on horseback, and doing all manner of work, but Blair’s attention was captured by the numerous men, women, and children with skin as dark as coal. Horse manure lay everywhere, and the stench of garbage filled the air. Blair spotted, at intervals, staircases leading from the top of the bank down to the wharves. The cart turned onto a street cut into the bank and running perpendicular to the river. He looked up in amazement at the earthen walls, buttressed by wooden planks. They climbed the slope to flat ground, turned a corner, and in a few minutes were facing the courthouse, which occupied the middle of High Street, so that pedestrians, carts, and horses were allowed to move on either side.
White and black men, women, and children, and buyers and agents lined one side of the building. People snaked up an exterior staircase leading to a balcony where the main entrance was. Those who had just been registered as servants or slaves streamed down another staircase on the opposite side. Blair looked up with dread. Without thinking, he scratched his scalp; shivers rippled through him. He glanced at Jeffrey Craig; the man was scrutinizing him. He leaned on the wall, pinning his hands behind his hips to keep them from flying to his head. They slowly circled the building, inching their way up the stairs, until at long last, they were led into a courtroom. Six men sat at a raised bench, their distinguished demeanor intimidating. Greetings were exchanged all around, and Blair was introduced by Rawle. Learning that he was in the presence of the governor of Pennsylvania and the mayor of Philadelphia, both Quakers, added to his timidity.
At a table below the bench, a clerk turned over a page in the Philadelphia mayor’s court indenture book. He scribbled and then read out loud, “William Rawle and Edward Horne assigned Blair Eakins, a servant from Ireland, in the brig King George, Captain Nathaniel Stokes, to Jeffrey Craig, from Philadelphia, cordwainer, to serve four years. Consideration fourteen pounds, with customary dues.”
A cordwainer? Blair thought with some alarm. He did not know the first thing about making shoes.
Craig paid the twenty shillings tax due for every Irish imported, was given a declaration signed by Rawle stating that Blair was not a convict, and took possession of the indenture. Out on the balcony Blair struggled to breathe. The staircase swam before his eyes. By the time he reached the bottom, he was suffocating and his palms were clammy. He took a couple of steps and passed out.