Upon reaching the shores of Manhattan Island,
I waited behind the barrels for the passengers to alight before attempting to
disembark. I moved stealthily along the riverfront, acutely aware of my singularity
as a small colored orphan in rags. I was able to move about unmolested,
however, and began to make my way through the city, which was slowly returning
to its previous state.
My senses were quickly
assaulted by the sight of blackly belching smokestacks, the overpowering stench
of decaying meat and fish, and the harsh clanging sounds of sirens, foghorns,
fishmongers and others calling out their trades. Broken glass, debris, and
garbage still lay in the gutters and the windowless storefronts and burned
buildings attested to the recent violence. The pestilential air teemed with the
foulness of offal and blood from the riverfront abattoirs. Street cleaners had
not come the evening before to shovel the loads of horse manure and cast straw.
Steaming piles of dog excrement were mixed with human waste from chamber pots,
slop buckets, and outdoor privies.
Mercifully, the sights were not as horrid as
those that I had witnessed the week prior, when human bodies were among the
ruins. Pangs of hunger stung my belly as I continued to traipse along. I was a
vagabond, with not a coin for bread.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
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