Free May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel by Peter Troy Page A

propped on his hips, watching them, then lookin’ over at the ship they’re in line to board. And Ethan can’t help but stare at the three of them, the two dark-skinned men with the sort of expressions bein’ chained up should produce, and the white man with his right hand just a few inches from the gun in his belt. After he and his Da are well past them, Ethan can’t hold back the question.
    Why’d those two men have chains on ’em? he asks. Were dey criminals?
    His Da seems unhappy to hear the question, like it’s something he’d rather not discuss.
    Most loikely runaways, lad, his Da says.
    Runaways? Ethan asks.
    And then his Da looks and shakes his head a little.
    Oi’m sorry you had t’see that on yer first day here lad, he says. Dose colored fellas musta been slaves down sout’ an’ run off up here lookin’ for dere freedom.
    But it doesn’t fit together in Ethan’s mind.
    So if dey made it up here, how come dey got chains on ’em still? he asks.
    Well, dat fella wit’ the gun next to ’em musta been a slave-catcher who’s bringin’ ’em back down sout’, Da answers.
    And Ethan worries that maybe the slave-catcher, or someone like him, will spot Suah and try to put him in chains and bring him backto Coo-bah, which he knows is south of New York. He imagines what would happen, how Suah would never stand for it and would fight the man, and maybe the man would have to shoot him. And the worry must show on Ethan’s face, because his Da puts his arm around his shoulders and pulls him to his side.
    Ahh, don’t worry lad. Sure yer friend is safe. Now … dis is South Street Port, an’ dat’s th’East River, his Da continues, pointin’ to the water. Where you landed on th’udder soide o’ th’island is th’Hudson River—named after th’explorer. An’ Brooklyn is over dere.
    Brooklyn is much smaller, disappointing by comparison. Everything looks more spread out on the Brooklyn side of the river, and the docks are filled with mostly fishing boats and ferries, it seems, with only a few ships the size of those on this side of the river. Onboard the steamboat ferry, Ethan watches the paddlewheel propel them forward as Da tells him what the past few weeks have been like. It sounds like a grand adventure, with him up before sunrise every mornin’ to take out a small boat called a
skiff
and fish for a few hours. That’s his new profession, he tells him with a proud smile.
    Yer Da’s a fisherman just loike Saint Peter himself, he says with a laugh, before filling him in on the rest of his routine.
    After sellin’ the fish at the pier, it was the ferry over to South Street, where he’d checked on all the ships that arrived there. Then he’d walked across Manhattan to the Hudson River side to see if maybe Ethan had landed there.
    Three cents each way on da ferry for da past t’ree weeks lookin’ for you, his Da laughs. I’m glad you showed up today, because we was runnin’ outta money.
    At first Ethan feels guilty for having put him out so, but then is happy that his Da would go to all that trouble. They land at a place called Fulton Street amidst a flurry of pedestrians as Da continues explaining everything he can to him, saying how Brooklyn’ll one day be as big as New York, but for now they get to live in a nice quiet little piece of it out in the distance more than a mile away.
    That’s Red Hook, Da says, pointing south along the shore.
    And as they walk toward it, the buildings grow smaller and sparser, with farms spread out in the distance inland until, approaching thesettlement of tiny cabins along the shore, Ethan’s struck, practically dumbfounded, by a sight that’s become foreign to him. He hadn’t seen it in the last weeks in Ireland, nor on the long walk to Newry or in Liverpool, and certainly not in the weeks on the ship. But here it is, a strange and most welcome sight to be sure. Out in the open fields, amidst the brilliant late afternoon sunshine, are children
at