Oh, have you heard the news, me Johnny?
One more day
We’re homeward bound tomorrow
One more day
Only one more day, me Johnny
One more day …
How many days and nights will go on like this? Will I ever again be homeward bound?
By my count, ten days pass. I mark each day with a corn kernel from a sack of meal, with weevils, that I found in the corner.
Andrew shares his porridge. I try to sleep, often clutching my stomach. I cannot be sure if I have sea sickness or food poisoning. I feel I have lost weight. I empty my chamber pot out the portal, but sometimes the wind blows it back in. The room reeks like an unkempt stable. I struggle to keep my wits, let alone retain the bearing of a young lady.
Andrew brings me cold seawater to wash with, separate from the murky jug of drinking water. It stings against my cuts and bruises. What hurts worse is that he doesn’t see me as someone created in the Almighty’s image. I am a specimen, not a person. He never took an interest in island sign language, just our “infirmity.” He could write to me, break my solitude with conversation, but he won’t lower himself.
To comfort myself, I try to make up a new story about a girl walking in a thick fog, looking for her lost dog. She calls to him with a long whistle, but he is wounded and barking. How will she ever find him?
I am too sad to finish.
Please Lord, never let me forget Reverend Lee’s sympathy and the admiration that Miss Hammond showed me.
On the eleventh day, Andrew unlocks my door. Scowling, he passes me a handwritten note in neat script.
I look up at Andrew and shake my head. With his jaw set firmly, he points a long index finger at the letter. He wants me to continue reading.
My heart sinks. I nod to show Andrew I agree to his terms. But behind my back, I cross my fingers.
He hands me a jug of clean water and indicates that I should wash my face and hands. I must clean off the dried blood, but I can hardly bear to pour water over my bluish skin. Andrew stands and waits. I dust off my cloak, untangle my hair with my fingers as best I can, and straighten my hat.
He gives me a hard look and points, ordering me on deck. After the darkness of my journey, I must squint into the morning sun. The freezing wind combs my still-tangled hair. My knees knock, and I long for the clean, warm blanket that Mama made me. At least the sea air smells better than my pigsty below.
I recognize Boston Harbor from plates in George’s books. I have always dreamt of coming to see the place where the Revolution began but never like this.
The Inner Harbor is much bigger and busier than Edgartown Harbor. There are wharfs spread out on every side. I see a forest of ships’ masts, like bare trees.
Side to side, we are surrounded by huge trading ships. I observe men loading heavy pallets with barrels and sacks, straining to lift them with ropes and pulleys onto the dock. Miss Hammond told us that sailors travel all the way from China to sell their goods.
I see a small monkey climbing the ropes on one ship. It has a chain on its leg. Andrew tethered me to the schooner with a rope around my right ankle as soon as he dropped anchor.
The sailors disembarking tall ships don’t look like Ezra Brewer. They are young and thick with muscle, wearing neckerchiefs and striped shirts. They make fast business taking the sails down and unloading their various goods before they disappear in raucous groups into the city.
Could I escape Andrew and get lost among the sailors? But what would I do from there?
It is such a strange sight to see everyone around me flapping their lips but never raising their hands to communicate with signs.
There is so much to look at that the details overwhelm me and make my head hurt.
After Andrew finishes securing the schooner, he unties my ankle. In a masquerade of chivalry, he takes my hand and helps me onto the dock.
Bostonians are bustling to and fro. Men rush around in breeches, tricorne hats, and shoes with brass buckles. Some even wear wigs.
Mama would look plain among the Boston ladies.
I admire their fine coats. Unlike our clothes, they are not all made from wool, cotton, and animal skins. I see many silk coats and even silk shoes, decorative hats with lots of lace and ribbons and plumes. I never could have imagined such finery.
I see a few freedmen, but I do not see any men I recognize as Wampanoag. They may be both, like Thomas. Ezra Brewer said slave catchers are plentiful in the city, and even free blacks are kidnapped and sold. The thought sickens me.
I am expected to carry Andrew’s carpetbag. He holds tight to his black satchel with one hand. His other hand firmly grasps my upper arm as we weave through the crowd. My eyes water, but I won’t cry out.
Flat brick buildings line the street, tall and close together. They wear no gabled roofs or other accents; their faces are flat with many windows like glaring eyes. The cobblestones beneath my feet are worn smooth, though I still stumble in this unfamiliar place.
We pass North Church. I recognize it from the tall white steeple, a needle that almost pierces the sky. I imagine Paul Revere telling his conspirators to hang lanterns in the steeple to warn patriots about the movement of the British Army. Miss Hammond enacted his speech: “I alarmed almost every house, until I got to Lexington.”
The streets grow narrower, dirtier. Beggars crouch in corners under worn blankets. I think of what Andrew
