TransAtlantic by Colum McCann Page A

could do about the hunger, said Webb. There was only so much a man could achieve: they could not give health to the fields. Such a thing happened often in Ireland. It was a law of the land, unwritten, inevitable, awful.
    THEY ARRIVED ALONG the quays of Cork in the autumn chill. The evening was clear. There was no breeze. A great damp stillness. The cobbles shone black.
    They pulled the carriage in to 9 Brown Street where the Jennings family lived. A beautiful stone house with rose gardens along the tight walkway.
    Douglass swung open the door of the carriage. He was exhausted. He moved as if some axle inside him were broken. All he wanted to do was go to bed. He could not sleep.
    Negro girl. Ran away. Goes by name Artela. Has small scar over her eye. A good many teeth missing. The letter A is branded on her cheek and forehead. Some scars on back, two missing toes
.
    For sale. Able colored man, Joseph. Can turn himself to carpentry. Also for sale: kitchen appliances, theological library
.
    Available immediately: Seven Negro children. Orphans. Good manners. Well presented. Excellent teeth
.
    HE CAME DOWN the staircase, carrying a lit candle on a patterned saucer. The stub of candle threw his shadow askew. He saw himself in several forms: tall, short, long, looming. He slid lightly on the stairs. In the arc of stained glass above the front doorway he could see the stars.
    He contemplated walking outside a moment, but he was still in his nightclothes. He continued barefoot instead along the wood-paneled corridor and entered the library. The room was all books. Long stretches of argumentative intent. He ran his hands along them. Beautiful leather covers. Rows of green, red, brown. Gold and silver imprinted along their hard spines. He held the candle aloft, turned slowly, watched the way the light flickered from shelf to shelf. Moore, Swift, Spenser. He set the candle on a circular table, moved to the ladder. Sheridan, Byron, Fielding. The wood was cold against the sole of his foot. The ladder was set on wheels and attached to a brass rail. He climbed to the second rung. He found that if he reached for the shelf with his hand he could propel himself along. He pushed himself slowly at first, back and forth. A little quicker, more recklessly, and then he let go.
    He would have to be quiet. Soon the house would begin to stir.
    Douglass pushed again, off the shelf, along the row of books.Climbed another rung. Higher now. There was a whiff of tallow in the room. The candle had extinguished itself. His mind swung to his young children. They would allow this, he thought. They would not judge it, their very serious father guiding himself on the ladder past the window, the sun coming up over the quays of Cork, the stars almost gone now, dawn a gap in the curtains. He tried to imagine them here, in this house of high bookshelves.
    He dropped from the ladder, retrieved the stub of candle, made himself ready to tread the stairs when the door creaked open.
    —Mr. Douglass.
    It was Isabel, one of the daughters of the house, in her early twenties. She wore a plain white dress, her hair pinned high.
    —Good morning.
    —A fine morning, yes, she said.
    —I was just looking at the books.
    She flicked a quick look at the library ladder as if she already knew.
    —Can I get you breakfast, Mr. Douglass?
    —Thank you, he said, but I think I’ll return to sleep now. The journey from Dublin got the best of me, I’m afraid.
    —As you will, Mr. Douglass. You do know there are no servants in this house?
    —Excuse me?
    —We fend for ourselves, she said.
    —I’m happy to hear that.
    He could already tell these friends of Webb were unusual. Owners of a vinegar factory. Church of Ireland. They did not display their wealth. The house had a humility to it. Open to all visitors. The ceilings were low everywhere but the library, as if to force a man to bend down everywhere except near books.
    Isabel glanced towards the window. The sun was making itself