The year 1836 had been a good year for the South. Cotton was rolling up into a gleaming ball--an avalanche which would one day bring ruin; but now prices were soaring. On the June evening when Frederick sailed into Baltimore’s harbor, tall masts of square-rigged vessels bowed and dipped. They spoke to him of places in the far corners of the world; they beckoned to him. He nodded, his heart leaping. He had left Baltimore a child; he returned a man. He looked around now, thinking, evaluating, remembering places he must go, people he must look up. But first, there was Mr. Hugh Auld waiting for him on wharf. Tommy was nowhere in sight. Then he remembered. Tommy also was a man--a free, white man. A little stab of pain shot through Frederick. Hugh Auld and his brother Thomas had come South to seek their fortunes. Raised in Vermont, they had found the lush softness of Maryland very pleasant. Employed by Colonel Lloyd on his rolling tidewater acres, Hugh had in due time married the Colonel’s youngest daughter and set up business in Baltimore. Hugh Auld had prospered. He was now part owner of a shipyard. Soon it would be Auld & Son. “Good evening, Captain. I see you’ve got my boy.” Mr. Auld greeted the captain though Frederick had hurried forward, his face alight. “Yes, sir; shipshape, sir. And not a mite of trouble.” Nantucket Bay was more familiar to the captain than Chesapeake, but he liked the southern waters and he found Baltimore people friendly. They stood chatting a while and Frederick waited. “Well, I thank you.” Mr. Auld was adjusting his panama hat. “Now I’ll be taking him off your hands.” “Go along, boy!” the Captain said. Mr. Auld stepped to the waiting rig, motioning Frederick to climb up beside the driver, and they were off toward Lower Broadway. They wound their way between warehouses, great piles of cotton bales and tobacco, pyramided kegs of rum and stinking fish markets; and finally Mr. Auld spoke. “So, Fred, we’re going to make a caulker out of you!” “Yes, sir.” Frederick turned his head. “Well, you’re big and strong. Ought to make a good worker. Watch yourself!” After that they drove in silence, the driver casting sidelong glances at Frederick, neither slave saying anything. Their time to talk would come later. The rig bumped over the cobblestones on Thames Street with its shops and saloons, and came out into a pleasant residential section of shuttered windows, dormered roofs and paneled doors.