Brookland by Emily Barton Read Free Book Online Page A

The freeze meant the waterwheels of the mill and the rope manufactory could not turn; and as no traffic could move, either, the river was quieter than Prue had ever known it. Both the gin works and the ropewalk were on holiday, so none of the fires were burning, to smoke up the view. A few of Winship Gin’s slaves were out behind the retaining wall in the frozen dirt yard, smoking their cheroots and calling out greetings to the bright-eyed New Yorkers as they arrived. “Get to work!” Matty called to them, but most smiled at him and waved to the girls. Prue imagined Israel Horsfield had already been down to tell the men work was canceled for the day, and had probably paid off a boy or two to stand on the road and alert any late-morning stragglers. In confirmation of her theory, one of the men—a free Negro named Elliott Fortune, her father’s fermenting master, who was friendly toward Prue—blew his employer a farting sound in reply.
    The ice was unlike that of the millpond, so meticulously swept clean for skating: This ice was a bumpy, dull gray, and dirty with ash, twigs, trapped fish, and bits of the week’s papers. As Matty stepped onto it, with Prue still on his back, Prue half expected it to give way and groan; Roxana drew in her breath sharply and pulled both toddlers up short by their hands. Matty cast her a dismissive glance over the shoulder and continued out onto the ice. “Look, Roxy,” he said, “half the persons of our acquaintance are out and don’t seem to be coming to any harm.”
    Prue noticed the ice was also supporting dozens of people she didn’t recognize, and with no more danger than an occasional loss of one’s footing. A group of the Schermerhorn slaves, released from the rope manufactory for the morning, stood in a circle clapping and blowing into their hands while one man jumped with all his might, as if it were possible to break through. One of His Majesty’s brigs was frozen just offshore, her sailors sliding along on the brackish ice. They hallooed and whistled as people passed, and one called out, “Hey, Matthias Winship—get back to your place and make the gin!”
    â€œNever you fear, sir,” Matty called back. Prue beamed with pride to be thus aloft on his shoulders. “It’s a year in the casks before its minute inyour tankards. I’m sure it’s your hope as well as mine you’ll all be home by then.”
    â€œAmen,” the sailor said quietly, but sound carried well in the crisp atmosphere. He spat over his shoulder for emphasis.
    â€œWhat’s it do in the casks?” Prue asked.
    â€œIt steeps like tea.” He let her down to the ground, where she slipped on the tricksy surface, eliciting his laughter. Tem got a running start and came skidding on top of her, hooting with joy. Pearl, who was trying to skate in her shoes, arrived more slowly; but the Horsfield boys were never far off from a commotion and came to jump on the pile like piglets, with Ben, as usual, in the lead.
    â€œCareful of the little ’uns, Isaiah,” Roxana said, but her tone suggested she didn’t think there was much to be done about rowdy Horsfields. Their blond sister, Maggie, was Pearl’s age and apparently under the boys’ supervision, but she hung back from the fracas as if such entertainment were beneath her dignity.
    A few dozen yards out onto the ice stood Simon Dufresne’s Black Peg, as she was known, with a large tray suspended from her neck. Roxana had always evaded Prue’s questions about Peg, but Johanna had taken her aside to whisper that Peg had begun her life as Simon’s father’s kitchen slave. After the father’s death, Simon had freed her, out of love. Now, though the domine would have nothing to do with them, nor some of the villagers, either, they lived together as man and wife, an arrangement which made Johanna shake her head and smile, but which she would