Peter Sparrow

New York

Life was pain. That did not necessarily make it dull or unvaried, for pain came in so many different forms. Pain of starvation–the sharp, piercing stabs that eventually settled into slow, blaring aches. Pain of the bruises from neighborhood thugs and bites from stray animals in back-alleys, apex predators of the cobblestone jungle. Pain of the frigid winter wind ripping through you, of the nights spent on the streets by the docks, too afraid of the lethal cold to dare fall asleep. All of these pains and more were well-known to little Peter Sparrow. In fact, in his ten years on this earth, it was the only thing he had ever really known.

Now, his pain was a new one: pain of illness. Of course, he’d been sick before, but never like this. He’d lost count of how many days it had been since he was kidnapped, spirited away on this dark and cramped ship to some unknown destination. Despite having lived on and around the docks of Dublin bay for as long as he could remember, he had never stepped foot on a boat, and the constant ebbing and churning of the wooden panels beneath his feet ensured that no meal stayed in his stomach for long. Not that there was much to eat–the cook fed him and the other captees leftovers that the paying passengers didn’t finish. Whatever little he was able to keep down gave him cramps and chills bad enough to keep him from falling asleep

Ironically enough, this was the best he had eaten in a long time, and given his life thus far, his imprisonment on this strange vessel could be considered a turn of good fortune. He didn’t have to beg for the scraps of food he was given, and though he barely slept, the precious few hours his body allowed him were peaceful compared to sleeping on the street.

Peter heard commotion on the deck above. Something was happening. He wondered if it was pirates. That’d be exciting. His mind began to wander–he found there was often no point in forcing it to witness such a cruel existence. Unlike Peter himself, the boy’s mind could travel wherever it wanted to, though its destinations were admittedly limited. He did not have the experience or education to imagine exotic vistas or vast riches, for even daydreams were a privilege for those that could afford them. His was a yearning for simpler things: clean clothes to wear, a warm fire to sleep by at night.

Still, he had spent enough time begging on the docks to know of pirates. He often dreamed of pirates attacking, stealing him away and forcing him to work for their crew. Some might consider it odd to aspire to scrub the decks of a ship, but for Peter it would mean being part of something. Of course, being a scrawny young boy, they’d probably shove him around and bully him, but he was used to that. At least he would have a purpose.

The hatch door swung open, and a sailor came down the stairs carrying a wooden box. He reached into the box and pulled something out, handing it to the first of the poor wretches who were kept down here. Many of the passengers only slept below-deck, and had their own cabins and beds–likely the ones who could afford to pay for passage. The ones like Peter languished in the dark under-bowels of the ship where they wouldn’t bother anyone, and hadn’t seen sunlight since they departed. Most of them were older than he was, though some by only a few years. Many of them were even sicker than he was, splayed out on the floors like corpses.

Peter strained to get a better look at the sailor and his box. His eyes widened when he saw what he was handing out. Lemons. Fresh lemons. He scrambled over to them, but was shoved to the ground as a larger boy saw the same thing. The others who were strong enough to move followed suit, forming a crowd around the sailor. The biggest among them began kicking and pushing to get to the front. The weaker boys like Peter and the girls knew by this point to wait their turn, and hope there would still be some left at the end of it.

After the apex predators were satisfied, Peter tried to make his way to the box, but the sailor began to walk away. He went over to the ones who weren’t strong enough to stand, taking a lemon for each of them and forcing it down their throats. Peter waited patiently for his turn–he figured they needed the lemons more. He waited again once the sailor was done, because the girls wanted some, and many of them looked worse-off than he did. When they cleared, he eagerly walked up and reached inside the box, only to find no purchase. It was empty.

The sailor didn’t really care–he headed back upstairs, now-empty crate in hand. Peter slinked into the corner, watching the others eat their lemons. One of the stronger boys finished his, tossing the peel on the floor. Peter grabbed it. The rind was all that was left, but it was something. He put it into his mouth, sucking on the skin to savor what little flavor could be found.

The commotion upstairs continued, but it didn’t sound frantic or violent. Probably not pirates, then. Peter couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Suddenly, the ship lurched, and Peter had to grab a railing nearby to keep his footing. They were laying anchor. Finally. Peter had no idea where they had stopped, or even if this was their final destination, but he’d bet it was. Normally only the paying voyagers were offered fruit. The fact the sailor came down and offered it to the likes of them meant they had no need for the lemons anymore, and wanted to get rid of them before they spoiled.

The hatch door opened again, and five sailors clambered down, one-by-one.

“MOVE IT!” The one in front yelled, an enormous, barrel-chested man with a thick black beard.

The five sailors corralled the aimless flock of wretches up the stairs and onto the deck. As he went, Peter’s eye caught one of the lemons given to the sick and frail. It was stuck in a boy’s mouth, perfectly intact. The sailors began to pick up and shove the weaker ones in line, but they didn’t bother with this one. Peter stepped out of line for a second, feeling the boy’s forehead. It was cold as ice. He grabbed the lemon from the dead boy’s mouth, cleaned it off with his rag of a shirt, and put it in his pocket. Maybe this day will be different. Maybe this is the day things start changing for me.

Peter and the other poor souls were led single-file across the deck and over the shaky gangway to a bustling port. They were lined up, with some overseer looking over each one, brushing their hair with his hand, adjusting their clothes to look nicer. In a few moments, it became clear for whom: a bevy of well-dressed gentlemen arrived on the scene. The unfolding scene was a strange symphony of organized chaos: the men went one-by-one, examining them closely. Some asked questions to the shipmaster or the kid themselves, some just inspected them, feeling their hair and checking their eyes, ears, and inside their mouths.

After several back-and-forths, a man would exchange coin with the shipmaster, and the shipmaster would hand over the “product” and a piece of paper. Peter noticed the papers were taken from each of the wretches’ pockets when they were being sold. That was bad. Peter didn’t have a paper. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. None of the wealthy men gave the spindly child more than a cursory glance before moving onto finer specimens.

Just as he thought that, a man stopped in front of him. Peter looked up, and the man looked down. He looked strange compared to the others–he wore a cheap gray suit and a black tricorn hat to cover his salt-and-pepper hair. He looked the boy up and down through the lens of his monocle, twirling his gelled mustache in his right hand.

“Hello, lad,” the man said. “What’s your name?” He spoke in a British accent, though the trip took far too long for them to be in Britain.

“Peter,” Peter said.

“Have you ever worked on a farm, Peter?”

“No, sir.”

“Hm… can you read or write?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, what can you do?”

“I…” Peter thought hard of something that would make himself desirable to this man, any skill or talent at all, but he could think of nothing.

“I’m not sure, sir,” he said. “I’m an orphan. I’ve never been given a job. I could only ever beg.”

The man grumbled. “Open your mouth and show me your teeth.”

Peter tried his best. The man inspected his gums, and checked the boy’s arms, too.

“Well, it’s not all bad news,” he said. He whistled and waved the shipmaster over.

“I’ll give you a pound for this one,” the man told him.

“You jokin’?” The shipmaster returned. “I wouldn’t even make back the cost of feedin’ him all this time.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I mean, look at how well-fed he is!”

The man poked at Peter’s ribcage through his shirt.

“Ten pounds,” the shipmaster countered.

“Ten? Now you’re joking. I spoke to the boy. He’s got no work experience, no skills, no trade, nothing. He’s too small to do any hard labor, and he’s male and spindly–no good for comfort. You wouldn’t be able to sell him to anyone else here.”

“Not true. They got boys like him running around in the mines south of ‘ere. Pay a pretty penny for ‘em too, ‘specially if they got small hands like his.”

“Oh, well forgive me. I had no idea you had so many contacts in the mining business. Oh wait: you don’t. So how exactly do you plan on selling him before your departure?”

The shipmaster said nothing, gritting his teeth.

“That’s what I thought. Now, please don’t keep wasting my time–I’ve got a very busy day planned. Two pounds sterling, and that’s my final offer.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The shipmaster hesitated. He looked around to see if there were any other potential buyers eyeing Peter, but there were none.

“Fine,” he sighed. The man smiled, and handed him two silver coins from his pocket. The shipmaster took them and hurried to his other buyers–clearly he’d wasted enough time over Peter.

“Come,” the man commanded as he turned and walked towards the bustling city. “I trust you know what’ll happen if you try to run.”

Peter nodded, and he followed. He found he had to nearly jog to keep up with the man’s brisk pace as they waded through the crowded city streets. It was familiar in a way, reminding him of the tumult of Dublin.

“Where are we, sir?” Peter asked him.

“We’re in the New World, boy,” the man replied. “The grand continent of America. Specifically, we’re in the colony of New York, formerly New Amsterdam. It’s a wonderful place–you’ll see.”

Peter looked around. While there were many similarities to his familiar Dublin–the crowds, the noise, the smell of the nearby sewer–there was one thing that stood out to him. Rather, it was a color: a deep, dark brown, the color of a great many people he saw walking around in the streets. He had heard rumors on the docks of people from a faraway land called Africa, with skin as dark as night, but he had never seen one until now. And there were so many, more than the white folk sometimes.

“I, um…” Peter began, trying to keep his mind from wandering. “I don’t have a paper, sir.”

“I know,” the man replied. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you one as soon as we get to my office.”

“What is it? The paper, I mean.”

“It’s called an indenture. It’s a contract for labor. You know what a contract is, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Most of the other passengers on that ship came here of their own free will, promising labor in exchange for their passage. You and a few sorry others, however, must have been snatched by a spirit. Were you by the docks when you were taken?”

“Yes, sir. I beg for money there–or, well, I used to.”

“They must have grabbed you as an afterthought. Normally, they try to get young lads with… well, with better prospects. Really though, you should have known better than to beg in such risky places.”

Peter’s face grew hot with shame, and he realized he’d never been scolded before.

“So I’ll be working for you?” Peter asked.

“No,” The man said. “God, no. No, I’ll be selling your indenture as soon as I’ve written it to a friend of mine, a Mr. Solomon Peters. I owe him a favor, and unfortunately the boy who normally works his farm has gone and injured himself. Fall’s ending soon, and the harvest with it, and someone’s got to pull the crops before that happens.”

“I’ve never pulled crops, sir.”

“I know. But you were cheap, and you were one of the only boys in that line that hadn’t caught scurvy. Besides, Mr. Peters has a soft spot for pathetic little creatures like yourself. He’ll work you hard, but don’t worry–once your ten years are up, you’ll be free to do what you like.”

Ten years. That was as long as he’d been alive, and he’d spend that same amount of time working for no pay. Peter just hoped he’d survive long enough to enjoy that impossibly distant freedom.

The two arrived at the man’s office, and went inside.

“Sit down,” the man told him.

“Um… what’s your name, sir?” Peter asked.

“Better for the both of us that I don’t answer that,” the man said. “No more questions until we leave here, understand?”

Peter nodded. The man turned and hailed the black girl who was waiting patiently in the corner.

“I’m writing two copies of an indenture for young Peter here,” the man explained. “When I’m finished with the first, you are to deliver it to the clerk. But before that, go out and secure a carriage for us to Solomon Peters' farm.”

The girl didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on Peter. Peter realized he had been staring at her since the moment he walked in, and his face grew hot again.

“Did your parents ever tell you it was rude to stare?” The man asked Peter. It was not two seconds before he corrected himself, smacking his forehead lightly. “Oh. That’s right. Orphan. Well, Peter, this is Delia.”

The two kids just stared at each other. She must have been around his age, maybe a few years older.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” the man told her. “He’s never seen a girl like you before. Now, did you hear my instructions?”

Finding herself, the girl nodded. “Yes, Mr. Daughtrey,” she replied.

“Good girl. Run along now, and be quick about it.”

She did. The man took out a quill and ink, and began writing.

“What’s your surname, boy?” He asked.

“I… I’m not sure, sir.”

“Right. Well, you’ve got to have a last name. Contract won’t work otherwise.”

“Some of the others at the docks called me Peter Sparrow.”

“Oh?”

“They said I had thin little legs, like a bird.”

“You realize they were insulting you. You want that to be your family name?”

“Yes, sir. I rather like birds, actually, especially sparrows. I don’t mind the comparison.”

“Suit yourself,” the man said. He began to mutter under his breath as he wrote: “Peter Sparrow… doth voluntarily put him self servant to Solomon Peters… for and during the full space, time, and term of ten years…”

As he wrote, Peter took the chance to eat his lemon. He struggled to get the peel open, his fingers weak and feeble from exhaustion. He managed, though, and began to ravenously devour the inside. It was the most delicious thing he could remember. It was tart and sour, and the acid stung the cuts on his lips, but he hardly cared. It was food, and flavorful food, at that.

Suddenly, the door behind them opened, and a fat, balding man hobbled into the store.

“Goedemiddag, Mister Daughtrey,” he said, speaking in a strange accent Peter had never heard before.

“Ah, Mr. Van Buren,” the man said, finishing up the contract. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I came to see about a new slave, but it seems like you’ve already gotten one for me, and of a much nicer complexion.”

“Apologies, Mr. Van Buren, but this one has already sold.”

“What? To whom?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose my clients. You wouldn’t want me giving out your name to random people, I assure you.”

Just then, the girl Delia returned.

“I secured the carriage to Mr. Peters’,” she said, curtsying.

The man grimaced, trying and failing to mask his annoyance.

“Thank you, Delia,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now, take this to the clerk.”

He handed her the contract, and she left with it.

“Peters?” Van Buren asked. “What Peters?”

Mr. Daughtrey said nothing.

“It better not be who I think it is,” Van Buren continued. “So you’re dealing even with his kind now? You used to have standards.”

“You know I cannot discuss my clients.”

“How much is he paying you for the boy? It can’t be much. I’ll double it if you sign him over to me.”

“Alas, as much as I wish I could, I cannot. I have already made the deal.”

“Surely you don’t honor it as a binding agreement? Next you’ll be making “deals” with apes, and chimps, and all the other African beasts you’re cavorting with nowadays!”

Mr. Daughtrey stood, a cool anger seeping from his pores.

“Listen very closely to me, Mr. Van Buren,” the man said, in practically a hiss. “I will not allow you to come into my office and insult my clients, my business, and worst of all me. I run a tight ship around here–I deal in only quality, and I don’t settle. That’s why you’ve bought so many little darlings from me. So if you’d like to continue to do so, I suggest you drop this whole thing, turn around, and walk out the door. Now.”

The air grew thick and tense between the two men, with Peter in his chair caught in their paths. He froze as best he could, half-eaten lemon still in hand.

“Fine,” Mr. Van Buren said. “But next time, if I find you’ve passed me or any other fine man up to trade with an animal, I’ll make certain you never do business in this city again.”

With that, the man left, slamming the door behind him.

“Finish your lemon,” Mr. Daughtrey told Peter, straightening his collar. “Our carriage is here, and I don’t want you spilling anything in it.”

Peter wolfed the rest down and followed the man out of the office and into the carriage. The two sat in a tense silence as the horses started walking. Peter was confused, and it must have shown on his face, because Mr. Daughtrey was the one to break the silence.

“Listen well, boy,” he told him. “Our world is one of dichotomies. You’ve seen one already: master and servant. But within the class of servant is another dichotomy: the white servant, and the negro slave. You are a white servant. You will work hard and tirelessly for the period of your indenture, but once your indenture is lifted, you will be free. Delia is a negro slave. She will work for me until her body no longer lets her, at which point she’ll be put to death, because the city is too cramped, and because she’ll have fulfilled her purpose to me. Do you understand the difference?”

Peter nodded, even though he didn’t.

“Good. Sometimes, there are wrinkles to this–all rules are eventually broken. Mr. Peters used to be a negro slave for the Dutch, back when they ruled these parts. They set him and a bunch of other negroes free after they worked for enough time, treating them like they were white servants. So being a free man, Mr. Peters gets to own you. Now some people don’t like the idea of a negro owning a white servant. While I can appreciate the irony of the arrangement, you should consider yourself very lucky. Whatever you might suffer, whatever might happen to you up there, you will still be lucky. Your ship could’ve landed in Virginia instead, and you’d be picking tobacco in the field until you passed out from the summer heat. That idiot captain could’ve actually known someone in the mining business, and you’d likely stay alive for a couple of months more at most. I could’ve sold you to Mr. Van Buren, and he would do to you what he does to all the little boys and girls he buys. Do you understand?"

Peter nodded, even though he didn’t.

“Good. You should thank me for giving you such good advice, but I’ll forgive you. I’m nothing if not charitable.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peter said. He looked out the carriage window, and his mind began to wander again. He wondered what Solomon Peters was like. He hoped that he was nicer than Mr. Daughtrey, and certainly that he was nicer than Mr. Van Buren.