Blackwell's Island

     We were loaded onto the ferry which was to take us to sanctuary on Blackwell’s Island. The river’s swift current seemed extremely dangerous. I had never been on a ferry boat, and certainly had not seen the broad expanse of New York City’s piers and waterways. The wharves were filled with cotton bales, food staples, and other pallets of cargo. From this vantage point, I saw the ironworks, breweries, coal manufacturing plants, and other signs of commerce and industry. 

The Prison at Blackwell's Island.

     I thought, too, of the violence I had seen. Who would bury my stevedore and all the other butchered and battered innocents who, but for an accident of color, would have lived peaceable and Godly lives? I said a silent prayer as the ferry boat prepared to dock.

     

     Turning my attention to Blackwell’s Island, a disquieting feeling came over me. Something about the gray brick buildings and gray stone lighthouse at one end seemed eerily familiar. Had I been there before?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]