Peter Sparrow

New York

Peter rode in the carriage with Mister Daughtrey for a while through and out of New York City proper, from bustling streets to quiet dirt roads. Mister Daughtrey had said nothing else to the boy, and started reading a book instead to pass the time. Peter didn’t mind–he looked out the window the whole ride, taking note of everything he saw.

In many ways, the city of New York was very different from the city of Dublin he’d grown up in. In fact, the port and harbor were the only things familiar to him. Everything else was novel and alien–the “city” itself was small and sparse compared to the tightly-packed clusters of tenements that lined the streets of Dublin. Instead were proper homes, almost all of them having been built in what must have been the style of the Dutch who built the oldest ones, walls of stone and brick with uniquely slanted roofs. All of them had windows of glass and chimneys, something only the newer houses in Ireland boasted. None of the houses bore roofs of thatch like the old ones back home, and there was more distance between the homes themselves, with most of them having their own backyards. That was the most striking difference–the amount of space, growing the further they traveled north. In comparison to what he knew, New York was barely a city at all, more like a large town, and one with not nearly as many people.

The carriage passed by many landmarks of interest–they crossed over a canal that forded a street over water, atop which many wells had been built. Peter saw an enormous fort out the left window, with a stone curtain wall ten feet high, four triangular bastions jutting from each of its corners. Through the active city square, with all its many visitors. Laborers and trademen, wealthy landowners, and slaves. Past the cemetery, beyond the homesteads on either side of the wide passage Mister Daughtrey called “Broad Way”. Peter darted back and forth on his seat, trying to see everything on both sides of him, until Mister Daughtrey shouted at him to settle down.

Soon enough, they reached the outskirts of the city limits, marked by another enormous wall. Next to the gate was another bastion lining the wall, fifty feet wide and solid gray stone. Peter thought he could see a cannon poking out from over its pointed tip. In this way, he saw the city itself as one enormous fort, one that was well-reinforced to defend itself from invaders. But who those invaders were or would be was still a mystery to Peter, and after his recent outburst Mister Daughtrey seemed in no mood for questions.

Beyond the city limits, the farmsteads grew even more spread apart. The driver led the carriage to a cluster of them, somewhat connected and closer together, but each with their own land surrounding. Peter looked out the window–they were not too far from the city proper, as he could still plainly see the enormous walls. That thought might have comforted him, but it didn’t. Whoever those walls were meant to keep out would have free reign in these parts, with little more than wooden fences to keep in the cattle. The cattlepen was enormous, built in the middle of all the homesteads, like it was something shared between them.

As they went, Peter began to notice another difference from the city–the people. They were all black here, not like the mix of different folks back in the town square. Men and women, and children, some of whom were Peter’s age. Peter studied each of them, wondering which one was to be his new master.

The carriage came to a stop, and Peter swallowed, his heart beating in his chest. He had no idea what awaited him in this place, and though he could not imagine it being worse than his life up until this point, the fear of the uncertain still gripped him tightly. The driver opened the door for them, and helped Mister Daughtrey out. Peter followed closely behind, but tripped on the foothold, crashing into Mister Daughtrey’s back. The Englishman turned around, grabbing the boy by the jaw, his fingers digging into the bone.

“I will not suffer foolishness from you, boy,” he snarled. “Not now. Heed where you step, and shut your mouth until I’ve sold you. I won’t have you embarrass me in front of Mister Peters. He is extremely shrewd for a negro, and we’ll both be lucky if he even takes you, so don’t do anything to persuade him otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said.

Daughtrey released his grip on him, turning and walking up the hill towards a house atop it. The home was the northernmost of all of them in the area–a plot of farmland lay past it, and beyond that field was wild forest. The hill itself gave a nice view of the other homes to the south, and even further to the walls of the city. Peter took a brief look at that view behind him as they made their way up, but only briefly–he was careful not to lose his footing again, per Daughtrey’s warning.

Mister Daughtrey knocked on the front door, and a white boy of all people opened it. He looked several years older than Peter, though he could not tell if he was an older boy or a younger man. His left arm was cradled in a sling, and he used his right to brush his messy brown hair out of his face.

“Good day, Leif,” Mister Daughtrey said. “I was looking to speak to Mister Peters.”

“You here with me replacement?” The boy said, a lighthearted mocking in his tone. Peter smiled when he heard the boy’s familiar accent–an Irish one.

“Believe me, boy, Mister Peters would not replace you, and certainly not with this one,” he said, gesturing at Peter.

“That one? Master Peters’ll be right buile when he sees him.”

“I’ll deal with Mister Peters. Why don’t you go fetch him for me?”

The older boy looked at Peter up and down. Peter tried to avoid his gaze, a heat of shame rising in his cheeks. Whatever his conclusion was, it must not have mattered much, because the boy closed the door. Peter waited anxiously, and after a few grueling minutes, the door opened again. This time an old black man stood in the doorway. He wore a fine black suit, and he walked with a cane. His small, coarse hair had receded and grayed, and his face seemed to wear a constant scowl.

“Good day, Mister Peters,” Mister Daughtrey began, doffing his feathered cavalier hat out of courtesy. “How have you fared on this fine autumn day?”

“I don’t need pleasantries, Daughtrey,” The man returned. “Just what I’m owed. Where’s the boy?”

“Here he is,” Daughtrey said, stepping to the side to showcase Peter like he was a prized item. Peter had no idea what to do, but Mister Daughtrey had been very clear on what not to do. He stood there, trying to look as presentable as he could in the rags he’d been wearing for his voyage across the seas. He squirmed under the scrutinous gaze of the man, and though he wanted to say something, he kept his mouth shut as he’d been told, standing as still and silent as he could.

“His name is Peter Sparrow, like the bird,” Mister Daughtrey said. “I figured it would be fitting for a boy named Peter to work for a man named Peters, though I imagine it might come with some confusion.”

Mister Daughtrey eked out a fake laugh. Mister Peters was not amused.

“You come to my house, and you insult me on my doorstep?” Peters asked, his brow furrowed in anger. “I asked for a farmhand, not a skeleton. He looks like he’s on death’s door, and when he keels over, I couldn’t even use his bones for a stew. Not enough meat on them.”

“I know he doesn’t look like much,” Daughtrey said. “But he’s a good boy, and a hard worker. He’ll suit you just fine until Leif’s arm is healed.”

The old man looked at Peter like he was a splatter of mud that had soiled a new pair of shoes. Peter looked at the ground, the heat in him overwhelming and horrible.

“Leif,” Peters called into the house. The boy from earlier quickly returned.

“Yes, Master?” Leif asked.

“Go take the boy around the place. Mister Daughtrey and I need to have a little talk.”

“Of course. The house, too, or just the farm and quarters?”

“Not the house. Are you dull? He's completely filthy, and you’d lead him inside?”

“No, Master. That’s why I was checking, just to be sure. I can get him clean, if you’d like.”

“Now you’re speaking some sense. Leave us now.”

“Yes, Master.”

Leif dipped into a short bow before walking over to Peter. He grabbed his hand, leading him away from the two men. They walked together behind the house, and Leif opened the gate to the fenced-in backyard, where a brood of chickens pecked at feed on the ground.

“What’s yer name?” Leif asked.

“Peter,” Peter said. “And yours is Leif?”

“Aye,” Leif said. “Where are you from? England? Ireland? You’re accent’s a bit off.”

“Ireland. From Dublin.”

Leif grinned.

“Likewise. What part?”

“I begged down by the bridge, where the merchants trade. Used to beg by the inns–better money, but they kicked me out. What about you?”

“I lived close north to the inns, actually, in the Wood Key. I walked by the bridge all the time. Shame–I don’t think I remember you.”

Peter reflected on his own memories, and realized he couldn’t recall a boy that looked like Leif, either. That was the way of things in such a large city, he supposed. He realized he could hardly remember any of the hundreds of faces that passed him every day back then. Most of them paid him no mind as they passed, so the only ones that stuck in his mind were the ones who were particularly kind or cruel to him.

Leif led him over to the wooden chicken coop, lifting the roof off to show the roosts and eggs inside.

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“You’ll start each morning checking in here, for eggs, and putting fresh feed out on the ground for the hens,” he said. “Put them in a basket to bring inside, and be careful with them–God help you if you break one.”

Peter nodded.

“Try putting the roof back on,” Leif said, handing it to him. “It’s tough to get the corners fitting the first few times, so better to practice it now.”

Peter took the roof, and had to use all his strength just to carry it once Leif let go. He grunted, trying his best to lift it up and over the coop. He had to steady the thing with his knee, using three limbs to hoist it up on top. Once he got it up, he wiggled it until it fell into place around each corner. It was exhausting work, and Peter keeled over, leaning on the coop to keep his balance.

“Tá tú cnámhach go leor, nach bhfuil?” He said in their native Irish, poking an incredulous fun at Peter’s scrawniness.

“Not for long, hopefully.” Peter returned in English. Though he could understand Irish, he had some trouble speaking it, as he was never properly taught it. “You look strong. Do they feed you well here?”

“Enough that you won’t pass out in the fields,” Leif laughed. “Though not nearly as much as a tiny thing like you needs. What’s wrong with you, though? Can’t speak Irish, and your English is hardly Irish, either.”

“No one’s ever taught me Irish,” Peter explained. “I learned English from an Englishman, so I talk like them, kind of. He was a baker who was kind to me–let me have the leftover bread that was too old to sell.”

“That’s just embarrassing. An Irishman who can’t even speak it? That’s what’s come of the country these days, ever since that feckin’ bastaird Cromwell came. Ireland’s not for the Irish anymore–can’t be a Catholic, and they want you to use the Crown’s tongue rather. Hell, if Master Peters didn’t speak it, you’d never hear a word of English out of my mouth. They've ruined Ireland, and they've ruined New Amsterdam."

“Could… could you teach me Irish?”

Leif sighed.

“I suppose it’s my duty as an Irishman, isn’t it? Just another thing to add to my list of chores. You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. Really…”

Peter’s words drifted off, and he felt tears begin to well in his eyes. All his life he’d been invisible, a small little ghost for people to ignore, or for the occasional passerby to help themselves feel charitable. Now, everyone treated him like something worse–a burden. He was used to being ignored, being a bit of trash on the side of the road to discard, but somehow this was worse. Everyone had expectations of him before they even knew them, and he was failing in all of them.

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Leif.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t worry so much. Mister Daughtrey’ll convince the Master to take you in–those two go way back. He’s the one who sold me to the Master, you know. You’ll work hard, and your body’ll hate you every day, but you’ll have food and a place to sleep. And you’ll sleep like a rock after a day in the fields. There are worse lives to live. Hell, you’ve already lived it, beggar boy.”

“Okay,” Peter sniffed.

Leif knelt down towards the chickens.

“This one is Tiya,” Leif said, pointing to a hen with dark brown plumage. “She’s the oldest hen in the coop. Her name’s African, from where Master Peters came from. I’ve asked him about it, but he doesn’t like talking about the past. He’s named all the oldest hens–this one’s Zahina, and these two are Nsimba and Nsuka–they’re sisters, actually, Tiya’s chicks. The newest ones he’s let me name, though–this one’s Croia, and that one over by the fence is Deidre. If you work hard, the Master might let you name the next one we get. Open out your hands.”

Leif poured a small bit of feed into his open palms.

“Hold it out to them,” he instructed. Peter did so. One by one the chickens came, enticed by the new batch of feed. They began to peck at his hands, tickling him. The sensation startled . Leif just laughed.

“Come on,” Leif said. “Got to show you the rest of the place, and get you washed off.”

Peter nodded, and followed Leif out of the backyard into the field behind.

“This’ll be where most of your work is done,” Leif said. “You can see most of the crops from fall’s harvest are still in the ground. I was fixing some tiles on the roof, see, and I fell. Broke my arm in two different spots. Doctor said it could take up to a year to heal, and I’m no good with my right hand, so you’ll have to do most of it. I’ll help where I can, though, and I’ll teach you. But not today. Come on this way.”

Leif walked across the field to the other side to a small barn.

“This is where you’ll sleep. I’ve already claimed the loft, so you’ll have to make do with the ground down here. It gets softer when we’ve got some fresh hay in, before we feed it all to the cattle. You saw them as they came in, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All the folks in these parts share their cattle, and feed them together. That’s lucky for you–it means the hay doesn’t go too quick. You wanna see my bed? I've earned mine.”

“Sure.”

Leif clambered up a wooden ladder to a loft above. Peter swallowed–he had never been very high off the ground for any reason, so climbing anything made him extremely nervous. He steeled himself, though, taking it rung by rung until he was at the top.

“Here it is,” Leif said, displaying his area proudly. It was a quaint and humble living space–a wooden floor, a few boxes of personal items, and a bedroll to sleep on. Regardless of its meagerness, a pang of jealousy ticked in Peter’s heart. He had never had his own room, or belongings, and certainly not a bed.

“Got my name on the wall and everything,” Leif said, pointing the letters out on the wall. “Painted it myself.”

Peter pretended to read it like he knew how.

“It’s a strange name, isn’t it?” Peter asked. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s a Viking name,” Leif explained. “I’ve got Viking blood in me, from me Daid’s side. Always told me our ancestors were the ones to found Dublin, traveling from the Norselands on their raiding ships. Proud enough of it to name me after a Viking explorer. He was the one to find this land, you know, before Columbus. At least, that’s what me Daid said.”

“I never knew my dad,” Peter said. “I wish I knew who my ancestors were. Bet they’re nowhere near as exciting as Vikings. I’m jealous.”

Leif grinned.

“You wanna see something cool?”

“Sure.”

Leif went over to the wall, prying a plank of wood off of it to reveal a secret cubby. He reached in and pulled out something that shocked. It was a proper axe, forged of sharp iron, inlaid with swirling nordic patterns.

“It’s a proper Viking axe,” Leif said, brandishing it with great pride. “It’s centuries old–me Daid said it's been passed down through his family."

“It’s amazing,” Peter said, his eyes wide in awe. “Have… have you ever used it?”

“Not yet, thank the Lord,” Leif said. “But there was a close call, about a half-year ago. We aren’t safe out here outside the city, not really. There’s Indians to the north, and they come raiding sometimes. Don’t worry too much, though. The main group that comes’re called the Lenape, and if you just give them what they’re after, they’ll leave without much trouble. But once or twice the Iroquois have come, all the way from far in the north, and they’re trouble. When they come, they want more than cattle, or chickens, or vegetables–they take people with them.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Peter asked.

“Two ways: by sight, and by sound. They mostly wear the same clothes–shirts and leggings of animal hides in the winters, and in the summers they hardly wear anything at all. Best way to tell is to look at their heads. The Lenape are bald mostly, with a single bit of hair in the middle, and it’ll be spiky, sometimes painted red. The Iroquois warriors wear crowns of wood on their heads, with a few feathers sticking out of them. And sometimes their clothes will have beads of some kind of animal on them.”

Peter nodded, trying his best to commit all of it to memory. Leif turned back to the cubby, putting his axe safely inside. To Peter’s surprise, he then pulled out another one, showing it to Peter.

“This is a Lenape axe,” he said. “Found it in the woods not far from here. It’s called a tomahawk. Do you like it?”

Peter nodded, eyeing it with a fascinated curiosity. This one looked very different from the Norse axe–the wood handle was studded and engraved with a cross-hatched pattern on the tip. Opposite the sharp, curved head was a small protrusion, cylindrical and hollow inside.

“I’ll tell you what,” Leif said. “If Master Peters takes you, and if you work hard for the harvest, I’ll give it to you. That way we can both have a treasure.”

“Really?” Peter asked. “You would just give it to me?”

“Sure,” Leif said, shrugging. “It’ll be nice to have someone else to talk to around here, and we’ll be sleeping under the same roof, so there’s no point in not being friends, right?”

Peter smiled. He couldn’t believe the words. A friend? For him?

“We should get back,” Leif said, putting the tomahawk back in the cubby. “There’s a well out back we can use to clean you.”

The frigid water of the well chilled Peter to the bone, and he stood in the grass, naked and shivering, as Leif brought him some of his old clothes to wear. Despite the fact that they were hand-me-downs that were too big for him, they were the nicest clothes he could remember owning, and he could not help but swell with hopefulness. Leif combed the boy’s wet, greasy hair with his hand to make him look more presentable.

“We’ll have to spring for some shoes for you,” he said as he tried fitting some old ones onto him. “You can’t work in the field with shoes too big. I’ll talk to Master Peters about it.”

“How is he?” Peter asked. “Master Peters, I mean.”

Leif sighed.

“He’s fine enough. Cranky as any old man at times, and other times he can cross the line into cruelty. But like I said, there’s worse lives to live. He’ll feed you, long as you work hard. He doesn’t like slacking, though, and especially not complaining. Keep your head down, don’t talk back or ask questions, and you’ll be just fine. Speaking of, we should get back to him. Try not to trip in those shoes–you’ll have to wear them to help his impression of you, but you can take them off after.”

The boys walked back across the field and around towards the front of the house. As they approached, Peter could hear angry shouting between the two men, but whatever their argument was, it died down by the time the boys got close enough to make anything out.

“We’ve returned, Master,” Leif said, bowing again. “He looks much better, I think.”

The old man turned, looking at the boy. Peter tried his best to stand up straight, feeling much more confident in his new clothes.

“Oh, he looks like a brand new boy!” Mister Daughtrey exclaimed, clapping his hands emphatically. “Why, with a few square meals and some weeks of honest work, he’ll be fit enough to plow the fields come springtime!”

Mister Peters grunted disapprovingly. Fear crept back into Peter’s heart.

“Please, sir,” Peter said. “I know I don’t seem like much, but I’ll work hard. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” Peters said. “And you have no idea what working hard means. Not yet. Furthermore, you will not call me sir. You will call me Master, for that is what I am to you. Are we clear?”

Peter nodded rapidly.

“Yes, Master.”

“Leif,” Peters commanded, waving his hand at him. “Go inside and gather a sack of eight potatoes for Mister Daughtrey’s fee.”

“Yes, Master,” Leif said, rushing quickly into the house. Peter swallowed. Mister Daughtrey had bought him for two pounds, and sold him for eight potatoes. Peter wasn’t sure which one was worse. Leif soon returned with a small burlap sack, and handed it to Mister Daughtrey.

“A pleasure doing business,” Mister Daughtrey said, taking the sack.

“You would be wise not to swindle me again,” Mister Peters replied, a subdued anger in his voice. “I trust you are not fool enough to need reminding of the consequences.”

“Of course,” Mister Daughtrey said, bowing and smiling politely. “But, and I must protest slightly, I have not swindled you. Peter is a good boy, and he’ll do right by you. I look forward to visiting soon, and I’m sure that when I do, you’ll have changed your tune about him.”

Mister Daughtrey placed his hat back on his head, tipping it towards Mister Peters. As he did, he cast a harsh look at Peter. The message was clear–Peter had better impress his new Master, or else. With that, he turned, returning to his carriage with the sack in-hand.

“Go on inside,” Mister Peters commanded both the boys. “It’s almost time for supper. You, boy, will help Leif in the kitchen, and you’ll clean it after. Go now.”

“Yes, Master,” Peter said. He followed Leif inside the house, and as he did he could not help but feel a sense of hopefulness. Whatever hardships awaited him, he would face them with a new resolve, a new shirt, and a new friend.