George Petros walked down the waterfront, the tails of his coat slapping the back of his knees. An occasional gust of wind would tug at his tri-cornered hat, threatening to snatch it away. But by leaning his head into the wind slightly, George was able to manage a sort of balancing act between the impetuous gusts of wind and civilization's preference for a covered head.
The cobblestones made for wobbly walking, and George had just bought new shoes. He hadn't broken them in yet. But the luxury of new shoes bought the fleeting edges of a self-satisfied smile. The soles of his new shoes made a metronomic tick-tick-tick sound as he hurried towards his destination, only slowing down when he walked around piles of unloaded cargo.
Men of all sorts, shapes, and sizes bustled around in the snappy, cold weather. Their breath steamed as they used long hooks to snatch the cargo up and unload it. George walked straight past them. He did not put on airs or anything of the sort, but he hardly made eye contact with the grunting dockworkers.
His destination was the Toussaint. George could tell he was getting closer, the quiet suffering of the New England dockworkers yielded to a more buoyant singing.
George detoured around one last stack of crates, the live chickens inside putting up a cacophony of squawks and complaint, and saw the Toussaint. The ship was hardly remarkable; it looked like any other docked merchantmen. What did give people a reason to pause were the people around the ship: they were Negroes. Of all shades of colors, George noticed.
Free Negroes were around the North. But to see this many in one area, carrying guns, talking, chatting, flying their own flag made people nervous. Ever since the island of Haiti drove the French from its shores for its independence, their ships had been ranging up and down the American coast. George knew it made American politicians wonder if the Negroes of the South would gain any inspiration from the Haitians' visible freedom.
The crew stood around the ship, unloaded the cargo, and conducted business for supplies with some of the New England shopkeepers. George himself was a shopkeeper, though of jewels and not staples of any sort. He nodded, seeing some familiar faces from his street: Bruce, Thomas. No doubt they would think he was here for some deal with the Haitians.
The smell of salt and sweat wafted across the docks as George nodded to some of the dockworkers, then passed through them to the gangplank of the ship. One of the Haitians stopped him. George looked down and noticed the pistol stuck in a white sash.
"What do you need?" He spoke with traces of what could have been a French accent, or something else. It took a second for George to work through the words.
"I'm here for a package," George said. "Mother Jacqueline..."
The man smiled.
"Ah, you're that George?"
"Yes."
George stood at the end of the plank as the Haitian walked back onto the ship. He was back in a few minutes, and handed George a brown, carefully wrapped, parcel. Nothing shifted when George shook it.
He stood there for a second, searching for something to say, but then he suddenly realized that the tables had been turned, and now he was the one who wasn't wanted here. He left, shoes clicking across the cobblestones.
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