Peck’s Slip, Manhattan
Winter Solstice, 1798
Even hundreds of years ago, New York City was the stuff of legend. People came from all around the world to escape their lots, to find their peace, to seek their fortunes. The streets are paved with gold, some whispered as they huddled in the bellies of ships, shivering from the cold and damp. There is honest work for honest folk, said others, their stomachs rumbling, their mouths dry with thirst, praying over meager meals of moldy bread crusts. There are treasures ripe for the taking, still others said, tongues thick with too much beer, rubbing their dirty hands together in their eagerness to rob anyone with anything worth stealing.
Every day, ships from all over the world crammed the East River docks, disgorging their thin and weary passengers into the hum and buzz of the city beyond. From the cargo holds, deckhands unloaded bales of cotton and wool; barrels of rice, flour, and salt; chests of tea; puncheons of rum; and pipes of wine. From the counting houses, brandy-gulping merchants came to inspect the goods and ordered the hands to bring the boxes, barrels, and chests through the teeming crowds of people so that the bounty could be properly totaled and celebrated with ever more drink.
On this December night, darkness fell early—it was the solstice, after all. That did not mean the work ended early, however. Myles White toiled along with the rest of the hands on the deck of the Aurora, unloading the sugar, molasses, and coffee they had hauled all the way up from the West Indies, goods that would go for a pretty price in this city. But it had not been a pretty trip, not for Myles White. He had seen things on those faraway islands he wished to forget, to scrub from his mind, things that had haunted his dreams and whittled him nearly as thin as some of the hungry and homeless newcomers milling around the docks. Myles would not speak of what he’d seen in the Indies, or what he’d done. First because there was no one for him to tell, and second because he did not trust himself not to reveal his other secrets.
Like many who traveled the ships that clogged the East River, Myles White had plenty of secrets.
Once the goods had been hauled away by the merchants, Myles got to work on the deck, sweeping and swabbing. No one had to order him to do it. He had learned long ago that the best way to prevent questions on such a ship was to work harder and faster than anyone else, to do the job before you were asked, and to do it so well that no one could find fault. He might be only a swabbie, but he was determined to be the best swabbie the Aurora ever had.
Even so, he could feel the eyes of Mr. Jasper, the boatswain, before the man spoke, could smell the drink and sweat wafting downwind.
“You there,” said Mr. Jasper. “Swabbie!”
Myles turned. “Yes, sir?”
“When you’re done with that deck, double-check that all the goods are out of the holds.”
“Yes, sir,” Myles said. “Of course, sir.”
Mr. Jasper scowled, and took a long pull from a brown bottle. “You’re that boy,” he said.
Fear prickled Myles’s skin like spray from an icy, roiling sea. “Sir?” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
“That boy who . . .” He swayed and had to grip the rigging to keep from falling over. “The one who . . .”
“Yes, sir?” Myles said again.
Mr. Jasper squinted hard at Myles, then made a noise at the back of his throat like one of the dock cats hacking up something disagreeable. “Ach, I don’t care who you are. Swab that deck and then check the holds are clear before you take your leave. And be back by dawn or we sail without you. Any boy could take your place, mark my words.”
No boy could take his place. Myles almost laughed, but coughed instead. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Jasper stumbled away, tripping and falling onto the dock before crawling off to one of the pubs.
Myles continued to work, the exercise keeping him warm in the chill darkness, and keeping his thoughts from more unpleasant things.
That is, until he heard the thump.
He stopped swabbing, tipping his head toward the noise. And there it was again: thump, thump. From somewhere below.
As far as Myles knew, Mr. Jasper had been the last of the sailors to leave the ship. So who, or what, could be making that noise?
He leaned his mop against the rigging, lit a lantern, and proceeded to check the whole of the quarter deck, the gun deck, the middle deck, and the lower deck. All were clear. By the time he reached the hold, in the deepest part of the ship, his lantern barely cut through the blackness. The Aurora rolled gently with the movement of the sea, but down here, the undulation felt more ominous, the boards creaking all around him. Myles fumbled in his back pocket for his knife, small but deadly sharp, a knife that had kept many a bored and drunken sailor from beating Myles for sport. With the knife in one hand and the lantern in the other, he crept through the freezing dark and soon came to the cabin of the carpenter. The carpenter lived down here because of the easy access to the hold, but also because he was a mean old man who hated everyone except for the rats, some of which he gave jolly names like Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift. Maybe the carpenter hadn’t left for the evening?
Myles pressed his ear against the cabin door. He heard faint scratching, then mumbling and whispering. As far as he knew, Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift could not speak, no matter how much the carpenter wished they would. Myles took a deep breath and then threw open the door, thrusting the knife out in front of him.
Inside the tiny cabin, a dark-haired woman sat down abruptly on the bed, her hand trembling over her mouth. She was white, and not old, but not nearly as young as Myles. In the yellow light of Myles’s lantern, her eyes were as black as the ocean at night, wide and dark and terrified, but also defiant, as if she were scared of the knife but also willing to meet it, whatever that meant for her.
“Who are you?” Myles said.
The woman licked her lips but said nothing. It was then that Myles noticed that there was someone in the bed behind her. Someone trying to stifle a cough.
“Who is that? Were you passengers on the last voyage?” Myles repeated. “You need to get off the ship or—”
“Or what?” the woman snapped. “Or you’ll stab me?”
Myles had only stabbed one person in his whole life, and he’d been sure that person had deserved it. But he didn’t know if this woman did.
He made a decision and tucked the knife away. “No. But if the carpenter or the boatswain or anyone else finds you, they’ll throw you into the sea. Or worse.”
The woman swallowed hard, gestured to the man in the bed. “My brother is sick. We only wanted to rest a bit.”
Indeed, the man did look sick, sweaty and pale. And the resemblance between the man and the woman was unmistakable. Maybe she was telling the truth.
She said, “I thought everyone would be away for at least a few days.”
“A few days?” Myles said. “We get a few hours. And the captain will be back before then to make sure no one damages his ship.”
“Oh,” the woman said. “Right.” She wrung her hands, frowning. In addition to the man in the bed behind her, there was a trunk at her feet. Myles had no idea how she’d been able to sneak the man and the trunk onto the ship without anyone else seeing her. But he had to get her off the ship before they did.
“Is someone meeting you on the docks?” Myles said.