Free TransAtlantic by Colum McCann

kill again, but he would still die for his true belief: a man could only be free if he lived in the cause of liberty.
    They talked gravely about the situation in America, about Garrison, Chapman, the presidency of Polk, the prospect of secession.
    There was something encyclopedic about O’Connell, yet Douglass could sense in the great man a hidden exhaustion. As if the very questions he carried were too heavy to hold and they had eased their way into his flesh, lodged themselves in his body, bound him down.
    He felt O’Connell’s arm upon his and he could hear the labored breathing in the silence between steps. A thin man stalked the far side of the garden, tapping at a timepiece that hung down from his waistcoat.
    O’Connell sent the man away, but Douglass thought he recognized, for the first time ever, the small defeat of fame.
    It is said that history is on the side of reason, but this outcome is by no means guaranteed. Obviously, the suffering of the past will never fully be redeemed by a future of universal happiness, if indeed such a thing is obtainable. The evil of slavery is a constant ineradicable reality, but slavery itself shall be banished! The truth cannot be deferred. The moment of truth is now!
    THE CARRIAGE WAS ready: it was October, time to bring his lecture tour south. His clothes were brushed. His writing papers were wrapped in oilskin. Webb had the servants feed and water the horses. Douglass bent down to pick up the traveling trunk himself. New books, new clothes, his barbells.
    —What in the world have you got in here? asked Webb.
    —Books.
    —Let me, said Webb.
    Douglass grabbed for the trunk himself.
    —Looks rather heavy, Old Boy.
    He tried to fake ease. He could feel a hard pull of muscle along his back. He saw Webb smirk ever so slightly. Webb called for the driver, John Creely. He was a small man, sparely built, with the emaciated face of a serious drinker. Together the three men lifted the trunk high onto the ledge at the back of the carriage, tied it with rope.
    Douglass wished he had not brought his barbells. A rash decision. He feared that Webb would deem him vain.
    In their familiarity, they had developed a dislike for each other. There was a bombast to Webb, thought Douglass. He was intolerant, easy to offend, devout to righteousness. He had been annoyed when he got the bill from the tailor. He had taken the cost of the waistcoat out of Douglass’s earnings for his books. A stinginess to him. He felt Webb watching him much of the time, waiting for him to stumble. He was afraid that he might become a specimen. Pinned. Observed. Dissected. Douglass hated to be called
Old Boy
. It brought him back to fields, to whips, to spiked anklets, to barnfights. And there was the money—Webb was collecting it to donate it to the cause back in America. Each night he asked Douglass if he had received any private donations. It rankled him. He emptied his pockets with exaggerated formality, yanked the cloth tongues out, shook them.
    —See, he said, just a poor slave.
    Still, Douglass was not unaware of his own shortcomings. He found himself curt at times, quick to judge, imprudent. He needed to learn tolerance. He was aware that Webb didn’t want financial gain, and it was true that Webb seemed apologetic for the slightly rancorous tone he sometimes took with the black man.
    They tightened the rope on the trunk. The servants came out to bid him good-bye. Lily blushed a little when he came to shake her hand. She whispered that it had been an extraordinary honor to meet him. She hoped one day that she would meet him again.
    He heard a cough behind him.
    —Only so much light left in the day, Old Boy, said Webb.
    He shook their hands one more time. The servants had never seen anything like it from a guest before. They remained watching until the carriage disappeared beyond the college, down the length of Great Brunswick Street.
    THERE WERE RUMORS of a potato blight, but the land outside the city seemed