They reached Philadelphia late in the afternoon. The sky was a crimson glow as he stepped first upon free soil. He wanted to shout and sing, but he had been warned not to pause until he reached New York--there only might he savor the taste of freedom. He asked the first colored man he saw in Philadelphia how he could get to New York. The man directed him to the Willow Street depot. He went there at once, and had no trouble buying a ticket. During the several hours’ wait for his train, he did not leave the station. It seemed as if the train would never come, but at last he was safely aboard. * * * * * He thought something was wrong. It was still dark, but all the passengers were getting off. He was afraid to ask questions. “Come on, sailor!” the conductor said. And when he looked up stupidly, the conductor added, “It’s the ferry. You have to take the ferry over to Manhattan.” He watched the skyline of New York come up out of the dawn. The hoarse whistles along the waterfront made a song; the ships’ bells rang out freedom. He walked across the gangplank, set his battered bag down on the wharf and looked back. The busy river was like a crowded thoroughfare. A barefoot Negro had leaned against a pile, watching him. “What river is this, boy?” Frederick asked. The boy stared. “That’s tha Hudson River. Where you come from, sailor?” The fugitive from slavery’s Eastern Shore smiled. “A long way, boy. I’ve crossed a heap of rivers!” * * * * * Then, early in the morning of September 4, 1838, he walked up into New York City. He was free! Part II _THE LIGHTNING_ And what man moves but on the crest of history! The spark flashes from each to each. The incandescence fuses-- Blooms out of the ghetto pit-- Roars to the sky-- Fans into a fiery liberty tree Showering its seed to the last beaches of the embattled earth! --HARRY GRANICK CHAPTER SIX _Is this a thing, or can it be a man?_ Freedom is a hard-bought thing! Frederick expected to remain in New York. He was free, he had money in his pocket, he would find work. He had no plans beyond reaching this big city, where there were Abolitionists who printed papers calling for the freeing of the slaves, and many free Negroes. Here he could work in safety. “_Voila!_” murmured a little French seamstress, peeping through the slits of her blinds as the jaunty figure came in view. She had seen such stepping before, such lifting of the head, such a singing with the shoulders. She remembered free men marching into the Place de la Concorde. She smiled and hummed a few bars of the “_Marseillaise_.” “_Allons, enfants.... Marchons...._” She threw the shutters open. What a beautiful morning!