trackers. With them, at least, he knew what to expect.
Portsmouth was the biggest town he had ever seen, ever imagined.
By the bay, masts of merchantmen and naval vessels made a bare-branched forest against the sky. The gilded dome of the commonwealth capitol dominated the skyhne. Jeremiah did not know that was what it was. He only knew it was grand and beautiful.
People of every sort swarmed through the streets, paying no attention to one more newly arrived, none-too- clean black man. Even the four sims bearing a rich trader's sedan chair looked down their broad, flat noses at him. And no wonder, he thought. Charles Gillen was a long way from poor, but he did not own a suit of clothes half so fine as the matched outfits of silk and satin the sims were wearing.
Jeremiah blessed the half-thought-out notion that had brought him to the city. Among these thousands how could anyone hope to find one person in particulari His confidence took a jolt, though, when he passed a cabin whose sign declared: 'JASON BROS: RUNAWAY SIMS AND NIGGERS
CATCHED.' The picture below showed a sim treed by hounds with improbably sharp teeth and red mouths. Jeremiah shuddered and hurried on.
Before long, his grumbling stomach forced him to face another problem.
On the road, he had raided fruit trees and stolen a couple of chickens, eking them out with fruits and berries. He did not think he could get away with that kind of provisioning for long in Portsmouth.
Food was harder to get at and thieves more likely to be hunted down.
He could eat for a while on the money he had with him, but he would have to find work if he did not want to deplete it. The twenty sesters he paid for a bad breakfast only reinforced the truth of that.
Here he would not have turned down the kind of hard manual labor that had made him run away in the first place. He would have been doing it for himself, of his own free will, and he reasoned that employers who wanted only strong backs would ask few questions.
But no such hauling or digging or carrying jobs were to he had: sims did them all, for no more wages than their keep. 'You must be just off the farm, to think you can get that kind of work and get paid for it,' a straw boss said. - Jeremiah's heart leaped into his mouth, but the man went on, 'If you have a skilled trade, now, like carpenter or mason, I can use you.
How about it?'
Jeremiah had used saw and chisel and plane often enough on the Gillen estate, but he said, 'Sorry, sir, no,' and left in a hurry. The straw boss's chance reference to real status, even if nothing was behind it, made him too nervous to stay. He wandered aimlessly through Portsmouth for a while, marvelling at the number of buildings that would have dwarfed the Gillen house, till then the grandest he had known. One imposing marble structure near the capitol had an inscription over the columned entrance way. It was in large, clear letters, but even when he spel ed it out twice it made no sense: EIAT IUSTITIA FT RUANT COELI. He shrugged and gave it up.
Not far away, down a winding side street, stood a dilapidaoed clapboard building with a sign nailed to the front door. The sign was hard to read because it needed painting, but the words, at least, made sense: ALFRED P. DOUGLAS, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Jeremiah was about to pass on by when he remembered Caleb Gillen's talk about lawyers and how important they were. Maybe an important man would have work for him.
And if the important man got too nosy, well, important men tended to be fat, and he could probably outrun this one. He walked up and knocked on the door.
'It's open,' someone with a deep voice called from inside. He sounded important. Jeremiah turned the knob and walked in.
The man rummaging through the pile of books by his desk was fat, but that ended his resemblance to anything Jeremiah had imagined. He was about thirty, with a straggling mustache and a thick shock of greasy black hair.
His breeches had a hole in the knee; one shoe had a hole in the sole.
His shirt was no cleaner than Jeremiah's.
Whatever he was digging for, he must have decided he wasn't going to find it. He made a disgusted face, looked up at Jeremiah. 'And what can I do for you today, sir.'
Jeremiah almost fled, as he had from the straw boss. No white man had ever cal ed him sir, even in mockery. This did not sound like mockery.
He took a chance, stayed. 'I'm looking for work from you, sir.'
'I'm sorry; I don't need a clerk right now.' Douglas muttered something to himself that Jeremiah did not catch.
'I didn't mean that kind of work, sir.' Jeremiah tried to keep his mouth from fal ing open. The fel ow thought he wanted to study law under him! 'I meant cleaning, cooking, straightening up'.' He looked around. 'You'll excus me for speaking so bold, sir, but this place could do with some straightening up.'
Douglas grunted. 'You're right, sir; as I said just now', that must have been the mutter, 'what I need is someone to make sense of this mess. You'll not be able to do that, I promise, if you have no letters.'
'I can read, sir, some, and write a bit,' Jeremiah said, and then had the wit to add as an afterthought, 'Mr. Douglas.'
Douglas grunted again. 'You slave or free?'
Ice ran down Jeremiah's back. 'Free,' he answered, and got ready to bolt if Douglas asked for papers to prove it.
All the lawyer said, though, was, 'Good. I'd sooner line your pockets than your master's. What do I call you.'
