Peter Sparrow

New York

When Peter was first brought to Solomon Peters’ home and exchanged for a sack of potatoes, he was filled with hope for the future. He was in a new place with a stack of hay to sleep on, and best of all, he had found a friend in Leif. Now that his indenture had begun, however, that hope had quickly turned to despair. Solomon Peters was a brutal master, cold and ruthless, and though Peter had lived a life of begging on the streets and sleeping in the cold, in many ways that life was preferable to that of a slave.

Peter woke up each morning with the rooster’s crow. He was to gather eggs and milk for Solomon’s breakfast before he woke, which miraculously happened at the exact same time every day. He likely woke upon hearing the crow as well, only taking some time to dress himself and prepare for the day, which did not leave Peter much time to gather the food at all. And he could not risk being even a minute late—his new master expected perfect timeliness, and he was always crankiest in the morning.

The first time Peter overslept, Solomon dragged him from his side of the loft, where he had gathered a bundle of hay for a bed. He held him over the edge of the loft, peering down at the ground eleven feet below. Peter screamed as he dangled there, his arms flailing to prevent him from falling forward.

“Please!” He cried. “Please, don’t drop me! I’m sorry! I’ll never be late again!”

Solomon shoved him back onto the loft, then beat him for his insolence. And after that little ordeal, Peter never overslept again.

Peter found himself getting beaten quite often, for any number of reasons. Tardiness, laziness, or performing any of his chores poorly in the eyes of his master. Solomon used a variety of tools—his cane, when it was most convenient, smacking Peter’s back and shoulders like a switch, or a large wooden paddle in the house he used for spankings. Out of all of his many punitive devices, however, one was his favorite—a black leather sap, one he carried on his person at almost all times. The device, although small, carried a mighty wallop, and produced a deep and hollow ache wherever it struck that lingered for hours.

While a smack with the sap was the punishment his master preferred most often, it was not the one Peter dreaded the most. To him, the worst was by far the paddle. It was not just the instrument itself, but the ritual surrounding it, that made it so horrible. The way he was made to stand—knees straight, back bent over, hands holding the back of the kitchen chair. It was those grueling seconds of anticipation before the wood actually hit him, when he just stood there, trembling and watching the kitchen wall, waiting for the paddle to come. And, of course, it was the soreness afterwards, the constant stinging of raw skin whenever you sat down. It was the punishment Master Peters chose most often for the crime of laziness, as it discouraged the boy from sitting again at all for a day or two.

Despite his apparent zealousness for violence, Solomon Peters was always careful. He hit Peter in a way that would not permanently maim or injure him—after all, he still needed the boy to do all the chores, and it would do no good to beat him so hard that he broke a bone or sprained a muscle. His master struck him on his cheek, on his stomach, on the flesh of his arms, or on the back of his shoulder blades, where there were no vital organs or fragile bones. This meant of course that after each of these beatings Peter was made to immediately resume his task, only now while injured. Peter had never before considered how hard it was to scrub potatoes with callused hands, or dig up crops from the field with sore thighs covered in bruises.

Worst of all was that Leif, who Peter had thought to be his friend, seemed completely unbothered by all of it. “I told you to be quicker,” he would say, shrugging. He would always respond with some excuse, saying that’s the way it was, and Peter would simply get used to it eventually. But Peter didn’t get used to it, and worse, he grew jealous. He never saw Solomon hit Leif the way he hit him, and so he began to resent Leif, perhaps even more than he resented Solomon. Why should Peter get beat day in and day out when Leif remained unscathed? He was barely doing any work, rather he just told Peter how to do it, and watched, calling out to him whenever he did something wrong. Even if his arm was in a sling, he was still the older boy, and could surely help out more than he did. Why did Solomon blow up over Peter for slacking, but let Leif amble around the place freely? It wasn’t fair.

And that wasn’t the only strange thing about Leif. Sometimes he would have the strangest reactions to things, like when Peter asked him about the door in the master’s house, the one that was always locked.

“Don’t ask,” he hissed, grabbing Peter by the cuff of his shirt. “And don’t ever try to open it. It’s locked for a reason, you hear? It’s not your business to know what’s in there, so don’t ask again. Ever. If you forget everything else I’ve told you, God save you, you’ll remember to never bother with that door.”

One day, the endless labors and abuses finally broke him. It was three and a half weeks since Peter began his indenture, and his master was more brutal than ever, working him tirelessly to get all the crops harvested before the winter came.

“You’re too slow, boy,” he spat, kicking him lightly towards the stalks of corn he was crouched in front of. “Faster.”

“I’d be faster if you stopped kicking me,” Peter muttered under his breath. He had no idea what possessed him to say such a stupid thing, but the words came out without him even thinking about it. His master, of course, responded the way Peter knew he would.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Peter said, trying to return to the corn. Solomon grabbed the boy by his shirt, lifting him up towards him.

“You will not lie to me,” he said. “When I ask you what you say, you tell me.”

“I’m sorry Master. I didn’t think about it. It’s nothing important, really, I promise—just something stupid. Please, I’ll just go back to my work.”

“What. Did. You. Say?”

“I just… I just said that I think I’d work quicker if you didn’t kick me, is all… I’m sorry Master, really I am. It’s just that—when you knock me over, it makes it harder for me to pull the corn out.”

Peter regretted those words as soon as he said them. Solomon was surprisingly strong for his age, and threw the small boy to the ground, giving him another kick for good measure.

“You will pull up the rest of the corn by the end of the day,” he snarled. “Winter is almost upon us, and I will not suffer an empty harvest because of the misfortune of being saddled with you.”

The old man stopped, his eyes distracted by something—a small snowflake, cascading down between them. He looked up to the sky—more came, laying a soft blanket of white on the field, still half-full with crops.

The sight of the snowfall made Solomon go berserk. He kicked Peter hard in the ribs, knocking him over on his side, then started on him with the leather sap. Leif saw the commotion from across the field, and ran over as quick as he could.

“Lay off him, Master,” he pleaded. “He can’t get the crops up if you break him.”

Solomon ignored him, beating the boy’s arm relentlessly. Peter screamed, tears falling down his face as he curled into a small protective ball. Leif had to pull Solomon off of him, but that only served to make him angrier, and he turned his anger to him instead, and began beating him. He kicked the older boy to the ground, beat him a few times with the sap, then kicked dirt in his face. Leif just lay there and took it, holding his arms out to block some of the blows.

After a few strikes, the old man stopped for a moment. taking some breaths to compose himself. He reached into his coat pocket and checked his pocket watch.

“Clean him up!” Solomon yelled at Leif. “And get him back to the field! The snow’s already here, dammit! You both have until the sun sets to get the rest of them.”

“But I can’t pull the crops,” Leif pleaded.

“I don’t care! You want to help him, so help him. The job is both of yours now, and God have mercy on your soul if those crops aren’t up by nightfall.”

The old man turned on his heel, and walked briskly back into the house. Leif sighed.

“Come on,” he said.

Peter just lay there, shivering from the cold.

“Come on,” Leif repeated, impatient now. “If you want me to dress your wounds before you get back out there, stand up already, for God’s sake.”

Peter didn’t want to. He wanted to lay there in that field, and let the snow wash over him until he died. At least then he wouldn’t have to get beaten anymore, and he wouldn’t have to work the field until his body wouldn’t let him anymore. But he knew he would have to work the rest of the day, and as terrified as he was from what just transpired, he was frightened even more of whatever his master would do if the work wasn't done today. So he forced himself up. Leif held his hand out to him, and Peter grabbed it, and together the two hobbled through the field to the house.

Inside, Peter sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, while Leif soaked a rag in turpentine.

“You really are a handful,” Leif said as he started to apply the rag to Peter’s scratches. Peter winced at the way it stung, but he bit his lip, staying still as he could.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“But you did,” Leif shot back. “You must’ve said something to make him so angry—he doesn’t blow up like that for no reason. You’re always saying stupid things, you know, talking back. What did I tell you when you first came here? Just do your job and keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be fine. But you just don’t listen to me.”

“But he’s cruel to me.”

“Yes, yes, he’s so very cruel to you. And your smart idea of fixing it is to invite more of his cruelty. How’s that working out for you?”

Peter felt tears well up in his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” Peter sniffled. “I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Don’t give me that. Your excuses don’t work on me, and they won’t work on Master Peters. You’re supposed to work, and work hard. The crops still aren’t in, and now with the snow and cold, half of them’ll be ruined. That’s why he beat the life out of you. We need those crops to survive the winter, and if you can’t get enough, we’re all gonna go hungry.”

“But there’s so many of them, and my arms stop working after I pull twenty or so.”

“More excuses. You know I was your age when I started working for the master? About five years ago now, almost six, come April. I might’ve been a little fuller than you in the arms, but so what? Did I whine and cry all the time? Did I ask the master questions when I didn’t need the answers? Did I shoot back and complain when he was awful to me? No. And wouldn’t you know it, here I am today, doing just fine for meself. Those licks he gave me are the first ones I’ve gotten in months, and now I’ll be sore the rest of the day, thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Work harder. I see you in the field sometimes, your mind lost somewhere, daydreamin’. There’s no time for that, not ever. You can dream all you want when you sleep, and that should be enough.”

But it was never enough for Peter. As soon as he found himself working a task with any degree of monotony, his mind began to wander, whether he liked it or not. It wandered even now, leading his eyes around the room. Solomon had come back into the house, but he was nowhere in the main area, and the door to his bedroom was open. So where was he? He must be in that room, beyond the locked door. Peter’s eyes drifted to it, lingering on the shiny black doorknob that looked like no hands had ever touched it. All the other doorknobs in the house and even in other buildings on the property were exactly the same, and all shared one key, which Solomon always carried on his person. This one though, was different, and newer, and the keyhole was unique and much smaller, something you couldn’t peer through. The door and its mysteries had fascinated Peter ever since he came here, despite Leif’s warnings to ignore it all.

A sudden pain burned on his knee, and Peter recoiled. Leif had gripped it hard with the rag, and looked him in the eye with an unexpected seriousness.

“Don’t look,” he hissed, his voice hushed now. “Don’t even think about it. I’m tryin’ to help you, for fuck’s sake. So stop being so damn daft, or you won’t last the winter.”

Peter nodded, even as the curiosity nagged in the back of his mind like the buzz of a flitting mosquito.

Leif finished with Peter’s wounds, wrapping a bit of bandage around his knee and elbow.

“The rest are just bruises,” he said, standing up. “You’ll get over them. Let’s get back out there—there’s way too many to gather by the end of the day, so we’ll just try to get what we can.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The two spent the rest of the day together, out in the fields. It was hard and grueling work. To Peter’s dismay, some of the crops had already gone bad from the cold. Leif said to not even bother with them, and to focus on pulling the ones that were still

Salvageable. And, despite his best efforts, Peter’s mind still wandered, out of his head, away from the field, and up into the clouds. He shook his head, trying to force his mind back inside him. He saw Leif harvesting the wheat with a sickle in his only free hand. Maybe talking will help me focus, Peter thought. Plus, it’ll keep the boredom at bay.

“There’s an awful lot of crops, aren’t there?” He asked Leif. “And we use them all for the winter?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s too much for three people to eat, aren’t there?”

Leif sighed.

“You’re always asking all these questions,” he said. “I told you, you don’t need questions, and you certainly don’t need answers.”

“But—”

“But nothing! You ask the master questions like this, and he knocks you silly for them. Everyone knows you shouldn’t be askin’ them except you, for some reason.”

Peter shut his mouth. He had never felt as stupid before he came here—it seemed like everything he did was wrong, that everything he said was something he shouldn’t even have thought of. It made him feel horrible, guilty just for existing the way he was.

From his periphery, he could hear Leif sigh.

“If I tell you, will you promise to mind the master, and stop getting into trouble?”

“I don’t mean to get into trouble.”

“You know what I mean. Will you just keep your mouth shut around him?”

“Okay. I promise.”

“We keep four people’s worth of food for the winter—one extra just because. The rest we split into two portions: some to sell, and some to pay tribute to the Lenape.”

“What do you mean, pay tribute?”

“Like I said, the Lenape come by every now and then, and when they do we pay them what they’re owed, or face the consequences.”

“But that’s not fair, is it?”

“Why isn’t it? This whole farm’s on Lenape land. These plots were given to Master Peters and the other free negroes by the Dutch West India company that enslaved them, but it wasn’t their land to give. They took it from the Lenape, and so now that they’re gone, the Lenape want it back. But the negroes can’t just up and leave—they’ve got nowhere else to go. So they reached an agreement that every now and again they pay the Lenape tribute, and the Lenape in return leave them alone. If you’re mad about it, blame the Dutch, or better yet, blame the English. They’ve been trying to rid the negroes of their land claims ever since they took over New Amsterdam, and the poor saps were slaves most of their lives, not lawyers. They don’t know enough about the law to try and fight back.”

Peter looked down the hill at the other homes that made up the free black frontier.

“Are they all as mean as Master Peters?”

“Hah. No, not really. Most of ‘em are kind, but some are even meaner. Just like any neighborhood of folk, I reckon. And don’t let the master hear you call him mean, or he’ll rub you raw.”

The two boys worked quietly the rest of the time, though sometimes Leif would whistle an Irish tune or two to keep the rhythm as they went. Leif was a fantastic whistler, which made Peter jealous, because he couldn’t whistle at all. But Peter knew the tunes, especially the famous ones they sung in all the pubs he used to beg next to. So instead he sang, filling the air with his meek little voice, high-toned and dulcet, intertwining with the melodic whistling. And through the many hours they spent there in the field, though they were long and tiring, Peter found a peace he hadn’t felt since he came here.

As I was goin’ over the far-famed Kerry Mountains

I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was Countin’

I first produced me pistol and I then produced me rapier

Said ‘stand and deliver’, for I am a bold deceiver

Musha ring dumma-do, dumma-da

Whack for the daddy-o, whack for the daddy-o

There’s whiskey in the jar

As the sun set, the boys collapsed onto one another, exhausted. Miraculously, they had managed to get the rest of the corn and wheat pulled, but despite this, they were not happy with the harvest. Rather, they dreaded reporting it back to their master, for Leif had been right—about half of the crops left from the field had spoiled from the cold.

“Gotta get up,” Leif panted, though he himself was still lying on the ground next to Peter. “Gotta get these into the pantry before it gets dark.”

“Alright,” Peter said. “You get up first.”

The two just lay there, both of their bodies sore and screaming.

“Aw, hell,” Leif laughed. “You called my bluff, ya bastaird. Alright, we’ll rest here a tic, but then we’ve got to bring them in.”

The boys lay there, looking up at the sky. The snow was still falling, though it came in infrequent spurts, and not enough to cover the ground. The flakes just melted once they reached the ground, forming small puddles in the dirt.

“Will we celebrate Christmas in the house?” Peter asked.

“Not really,” Leif said. “Master Peters is a Christian, I’m pretty sure, but I’ve never seen him pray, or celebrate much of anything. But you and I can have our own Christmas, in the barn.”

“That’d be nice. I’ve never gotten to celebrate Christmas before, not a proper one.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call two boys in a barn a proper Christmas. But I guess that’s how it started, wasn’t it? Three wise men in a barn, and a baby. So I guess two’s not so bad. We’ve just got to find a third, which shouldn’t be too hard. Now getting the baby—that’ll be the tough part.”

Peter laughed, and the two lingered there for a while. But the sun was setting faster than either of them wanted it to, oblivious and uncaring to their ordeals, and so they helped each other up, grabbing armfuls of wheat and corn and making their way to the pantry. It was a detached little building next to the house, kind of like a shed. Peter struggled to unbar the door, lifting the heavy black iron bar off of the front and setting it on the ground. The two took many trips back and forth, carrying. Since he couldn’t carry much with one arm, Leif put his load in the wheelbarrow, which was of course difficult to steer with one arm, too. It didn’t take the boys long to just decide to work together, and so they steered the wheelbarrow together, filling it high with both their loads of crops.

Inside, they placed the crops in six distinct piles that were already made from the crops gathered previously. Just like Peter said: three piles for the three of them (and one extra, Peter assumed, for emergencies), one to sell, and one to pay tribute to the Lenape. They prioritized Solomon’s pile first, then the extra pile, then Leif’s and Peter’s last, since he was the newest and the smallest. By the time they finished, the first two had decently sized piles, while Leif’s was meager, and Peter’s was quite small.

“It’s not enough,” Leif said, his voice trembling, worry flickering in his eyes. “It won’t be enough. Damn it all.”

“What are we going to tell the master?”

“The truth. There’s nothing we can do—we just have to tell him what’s what, and accept the punishment he gives us. No point in trying to lie to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, his eyes welling with tears. “You were right. I should’ve worked harder. I could’ve gotten more up. This is all my fault.”

“It’s alright,” Leif said, trying to comfort him. “The master knew there wasn’t enough time to get the crops up after I was injured, not for a tiny thing like you. That’s why he asked for an older boy, but that Daughtrey shafted him. I forgive you, though. You’re new, and you don’t understand how things work yet. But you’ve got to learn quicker, or else you won’t make it. I’m trying to look out for you, you know, when I scold you.”

“I know. I’m sorry I get cross with you sometimes.”

“Likewise. Can you blame me, though? You’re a right bastaird, when you want to be. Wait here, will you? I’ll go fetch the master so we can break the bad news.”

Needless to say, Solomon Peters was furious. He grabbed Peter under his armpits, hoisting him up and pinning him against the wall. Peter just dangled there, eyes wide with fright, waiting for whatever it was his master planned to do with him.

“It’s not his fault,” Leif said, coming to his defense. “If he had been given the full harvest, he could’ve done it. He’s too young.”

“I don’t care,” Solomon spat. “He’s too lazy—eating my meals, sleeping under my roof. He can’t even earn his keep with all I’ve given him. He’s been spoiled—that’s the problem. But don’t worry. We’ll fix that, won’t we?”

He dropped Peter onto the ground, then left the pantry in a hurry. Peter and Leif ran to catch up to him, crossing the field towards the barn. Peter watched in horror as his master grabbed large handfuls of the hay he used for his bed, taking them outside and scattering to the wind.

“No!” Peter cried. “Please, don’t, Master! It’s all I have to sleep on!”

Solomon belted the boy in the mouth, hard enough to knock him to the ground. So Peter just lay there in the dirt, watching as the last remnants of hay blew down the hill and out of sight.

“You will sleep on the ground,” His master told him, sticking his finger in the boy’s face. “Maybe that will teach you the value of having a bed. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to earn it back.”

He turned to Leif, the anger still in his eyes.

“And you,” he said. “Have forgotten how to speak to me. Who is the master here?”

“You are, Master,” Leif said, bowing his head.

“And don’t forget it. You are too soft on him, which is your right, but you will not tell me what to do with my property. And if I find that you’ve spoiled him again, if you give him some blanket or something soft to sleep on, so help me, I will take your own bed out of here and burn it in front of you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

With that, their master paced back towards the house, leaving the two boys with their sorrow. The snow continued to fall, and Peter began to hate it. It wasn’t even frequent or heavy enough to look nice, to provide him some comfort. All it made him was wet, and cold. He writhed uncomfortably in his clothing, soaked from the damp mud he was knocked into, and the only thing he could think of was how this horrible feeling would be his singular experience every night from now on.

That night, long after Leif and Solomon had gone to bed, Peter stood up, creeping out of the barn. He was not able to sleep, not with the hay gone, alone on the cold wintry ground. He was too wet, too cold, and too angry. He had been sad at first, but that had turned to anger, to fury. Everything was Solomon Peters’ fault. Peter knew he wasn’t useless, or stupid, or lazy. Those were all attributes his cruel master had given him, and he alone made Peter feel that he was. He was horrible to Peter, and he was horrible to Leif, too. And so Peter made a decision he never thought he would come to. He had resolved to kill his master, to murder the bitter old man while he slept.

Peter slipped into the house—Solomon kept it unlocked at night, because sometimes in his age he would have some accident, so Leif would come check on him every now again through the night and morning to make sure he was okay. But Leif would not do his first shift for many hours, which gave Peter time. He grabbed a long knife from the kitchen, sneaking towards Solomon’s bedroom. His heart was filled with terror, and of course, with guilt. Peter had never really hurt any creature, not even the stray dogs and cats that attacked him on the streets for his food. But in his mind, all of his problems would be solved if Solomon Peters just went away. He and Leif could take over the farms themselves, and between the two of them they would have plenty of food for the winter. No one would hit them, or scream at them, or call them names. They could work together every day happily, singing and whistling together without a care in the world. But only if the master was gone.

Peter opened the door, pushing it open as slow as he could so it didn’t creak. To his dismay, the door still whined on its hinges, but the sound didn’t cause his master to stir from his slumber. Peter crept towards the old man, knife in hand. Only suddenly, he stopped, his body freezing in place. His master slept on top of the bed without a shirt, despite the cold of the late autumn, and through the window, the white light of the full moon shone through, illuminating the room. Peter saw his master’s back, and suddenly his guilt overwhelmed him, and he could no longer bring himself to do it.

Solomon Peters’ back was so disfigured, so deeply mutilated, that Peter almost didn’t recognize it as a person’s back at all. The skin had been flayed so thoroughly that his whole back was a series of deep pock marks and fleshy ribbons. Peter had seen enough sailors working in the summer to know exactly what did it. It was a unique scar, a flesh scourged and shredded in a way that could only be done by a cat o’ nine tails. A hideous flail with nine whips attached to it of leather or thick cord, it carried the reputation of scourging the back so thoroughly that it left marks deeper than a normal whip. Only, Peter had never seen a scar from it as severe as the ones on his master. They covered his whole back, top to bottom, every inch a mess of deep trenches between warped mountains of protruding flesh. The mere sight of it made Peter sick to his stomach, and filled every inch of him with a despair so heavy he could not even lift the knife anymore.

Peter backed away from the room, shutting the door. He hurried back to the kitchen, put the knife back in the block, then ran from the house as fast as he could, back to the barn. He sat there, in the dark, cradling himself as he rocked back and forth. None of it made sense to him. Whatever torture gave Solomon Peters those scars were worse than any beating Peter had endured. It must have been from the time when Peters was a slave for the Dutch, before he had been granted his freedom. Leif had told him that the Dutch were brutal to their slaves, like all the white slaveowners were, but he had no idea the extent of it. But this only made him more confused. Solomon Peters knew what it was like to be beaten, to be thrown around and treated like dirt. So why did he do it to the boys? Shouldn’t he know better? Why did he treat the boys the same way he was treated? It was all too much, too complex for a boy Peter’s age to grapple with. He was too exhausted, too hungry, too cold to think of why a man who had been hurt so much would turn and hurt others. So he didn’t. He just sat there, rocking himself to sleep, crying soft sobs deep into the snowy night.