The Stowaway

As the steamboat approached the landing, I moved toward one of the pilings, treading water and attempting to remain concealed. I waited for the passengers to disembark. Oddly, only three persons came off the boat. They were whites, dressed in the attire of gentlemen, and each held a walking stick. They were followed by two other men in work clothes, along with a young blond-headed boy who appeared to be no more than ten years of age. 

I watched as they strolled in the direction of the almshouse, conversing as they went along. I then clambered up the wharf and, seeing no one about, scurried toward the stern and concealed myself behind a stand of barrels. I presumed that the boat would have to await passengers to be ferried across the river, so I did my best to arrange myself comfortably in this new hiding place. Although I had rested in the cave, I still felt fitful and anxious. I knew that I would not be secure until I was away from the island. Finally, I heard voices and the movement of people. The steamboat started up, was released from its moorings, and I could feel it moving swiftly along the current. Shortly, I would be back in Manhattan. I knew not a soul. I was filthy, and my frock was in tatters. My prospects appeared bleak.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]