Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons

by Ann Rinaldi

"If anyone dares, I'll call him out for a duel."

  I looked at him. He meant it. He believed in me.

  "You've been working too hard," he said, getting up. "You're only thirteen, for heaven's sake. Give yourself time. Now get some rest. The poetry will come when you least expect it."

  Nathaniel believed in me. Somehow I found that worse than anything.

  It was Pope's Day, November 5. I did not quite understand what it meant. But it originated in England and had something to do with hating Catholics. Enough reason for Boston to celebrate. It was a day of bright blue skies. Since Parliament repealed the Stamp Act in March of '66, a dubious peace had descended upon Boston. Still, all day the students had been taking on in the street below my window, blowing conch shells, drinking in public, shouting saucy things to women, and in general making nuisances of themselves.

  I found them an annoyance. I had a headache. Virgil evaded me. I looked at the dry pages and wondered how I could ever do the translations Nathaniel wanted. And why I must do them when all of humanity seemed to be doing as they pleased.

  When did I ever do as I pleased? The last time was the morning I'd run off to meet Obour in the rice fields.

  I wanted to run free now. Why did I have to be inside studying on such a golden autumn afternoon, when those spoiled boys from Harvard were out there making sport?

  Because they were rich, white, and male. And their place in life was certain. While I, who likely had more brains and wits than any two of them combined, had to sit confined and behave because I wrote poetry and I was a nigra girl.

  I set my book aside and started to write.

  For the next two hours, while the fire spit in the grate and the noise of the revelers continued outside my window, I wrote. From somewhere belowstairs a clock chimed. I heard Mrs. Wheatley's voice, heard a door slam, a dog bark in the distance. I lost all track of time. When I was finished, I stopped and read what I had written.

  I liked the last stanza the best. Improve your privileges while they stay, ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears or good or bad report of you to heaven.

  Yes, it was good. I sat back, unbelieving. I had done it! I had written another poem! My headache pressed hard against my temples. I was spent.

  Footsteps in the hall, a knock, then Nathaniel came in. "I hope you've been studying, Phillis. Is that tea hot?"

  I could scarce contain myself. "Yes."

  "Pour a cup for me. I couldn't get anyone in the kitchen to even pay mind to me. The place is in turmoil, what with the gathering Mother is having tonight for Reverend Occom and Messrs. Hussey and Coffin."

  "And your friends," I reminded him.

  He shrugged. "Business acquaintances. They must be feted if I'm to serve as financial exchange agent for them. They are all powerful merchants. Are those pastries fresh?"

  "This day Aunt Cumsee made them."

  "They spoil you rotten, Phillis." He took a pastry and devoured it hungrily. "Pope's Day. It was hell out in the streets. Captain Macintosh and his boys. I rue the day the North and South End gangs ever buried the hatchet."

  "I've written a poem," I said.

  He stopped chewing and stared at me. "The devil you have."

  "I've been working on it these past two hours."

  He set down his cup and held out his hand.

  I gave it to him.

  He leaned back in his chair and read. Darkness was gathering outside. The fire was getting low in the grate.

  He set the paper down. "It's very good."

  "Thank you."

  Then, of a sudden, he jumped up, grabbed me, and whirled me around the room. "I told you you could do it, didn't I?"

  "Yes!" I shouted. "Yes. Oh, stop, you're making me dizzy."

  He stopped, but he could not be still. He paced. "Wait until Mother hears this. Let me have it. I must show it to her before the guests arrive. And you will recite it tonight."

  "Oh, Nathaniel, no!"

  "Yes!" He was jubilant.

  My face clouded. "I'm worried about something, Nathaniel."

  He was rereading the poem.

  "I wrote my first poem because I was angry with Mary. And this one because I was annoyed at the ruckus the Harvard boys were making. What does that mean?"

  "That you're a poet," he said.

  "Oh, Nathaniel, please listen. Is anger my muse, then?"

  He stopped reading. "Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori. What does that mean, Phillis?"

  "I don't know."

  "It means, 'Love conquereth all things, let us yield to love.' You have anger in you, Phillis. Write it away. It will quit your soul, and other emotions will be your muse. You've done well. It's a good poem. Don't flay yourself."

  He left. I sat before the fire. Let us yield to love, he had said. Oh, Nathaniel.

  Chapter Twenty

  I had lost my cowrie shell!

  Frantically I scrambled around my room looking for it. Where had I put it? I got down on my hands and knees and felt around the rug. I stood up and felt in the pocket I wore around my waist. There was a hole in it! I'd been so busy playing the poet that I'd not sewed it up. How could I recite in front of all those people? I must look again for my shell.

  "Phillis? You must come down. We're waiting. Supper will soon be served." It was Mary.

  "All right, I'll be along directly."

  Mary was playing "The Fair Flower of North-umberland" on the harpsichord as I slowly descended the stairs ten minutes later, without the shell. Candles cast brilliant light. Women in French silks moved through the Wheatley dining room and parlor, chattering. Men in powdered wigs and richly embroidered frock coats stood in bunches, sipping wine. Everywhere, silver gleamed, crystal shone, the fragrances of candles and good food mingled.

  I stood hesitating in the hallway. The missing cowrie shell cut a sense of loss deep within me. I felt naked, unprotected. And some instinct told me I needed protection. I was nervous.

  Sulie and Aunt Cumsee were setting steaming platters and silver urns of food down on the table. Mrs. Wheatley announced dinner. Gentlemen offered their arms to ladies. Chairs were pulled out from the table. People took their places.

  Then Nathaniel saw me and straightened up from settling some fair young thing in her chair. "Ah, here she is. Phillis, come meet our guests. Ladies and gentlemen, this is our Phillis."

  I recognized some faces. John Hancock, two of Mary's insipid friends. They nodded and smiled. But there were stares from others. I knew what they were thinking.

  A nigra girl? To sit at table with us?

  Reverend Lathrop stood and pulled out a chair for me. I sat next to him.

  "Phillis is going to recite her latest poem for us after supper," Nathaniel said.

  Tension broke. It was all right now. I was not just any nigra girl. I was Mrs. Wheatley's nigra who wrote poetry. An oddity at worst, a titillating amusement at best.

  I picked at my food. Turtle soup, two kinds of roast meats, salmon en croûte, a new specialty of Aunt Cumsee's. Buttered vegetables. The pleasant chatter, the tinkling laughter of the women, seemed far away.

  Then Mrs. Wheatley smiled at me. "What is your new poem about, Phillis?"

  I swallowed a bit of roast potato. "The young men of Harvard," I said.

  A thin, balding man at the other end of the table laughed. "Ah, her heart is in the right place."

  "I've read the poem, Aaron," Nathaniel said. "I promise you that it is not frivolous."

  I stared at the man. He wore spectacles. His hands were long and thin, his eyes dark and probing. Why was he looking at me like that? I felt evil in the man.

  "Who is he?" one of Mary's friends whispered.

  "Aaron Lopez, the Jewish slave trader from Newport."

  I near choked on my meat. But I recovered myself quickly when Mrs. Wheatley gave the conversation a new turn.

  "Mr. Coffin, tell us of the voyage you and Mr. Hussey took down from Nantucket, in which your ship near broke in pieces in the storm off Cape Cod."


  Then, in a quiet voice, Mr. Coffin told of the lightning, the howling wind, the boiling ocean, the ship's creakings and moanings, how he and his friend gave themselves up for lost.

  Mr. Hussey sipped his Madeira in silence. And I felt the goodness in these two men who had cheated death. Goodness and evil at the same table, I minded.

  Then Mrs. Wheatley turned to Reverend Occom. "Do tell our guests about your plans."

  Occom was Indian, a converted Mohegan, now a Christian minister from Connecticut. He and his friend Reverend Nathaniel Whittaker were sailing on the morrow to London.

  "We will lecture to raise funds for Moor's Charity Indian School of Lebanon. It is where I was educated."

  Murmurings of excitement. I settled down, becalming myself. Mrs. Wheatley smiled at me.

  "We hope you have a better voyage than Messrs. Hussey and Coffin," the other addle-brained friend of Mary's said.

  Silence. Then Mr. Coffin spoke up. "Not all voyages are so unpleasant," he assured the reverends. Then he looked around the table. "Has anyone here been on a sea voyage?"

  "Phillis has," Mary said.

  All looked at me. I wanted to drop under the table.

  "Tell us," Mr. Lopez said in a soft, purring voice. But he knew. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew.

  It was Nathaniel who saved me. "Phillis was a child when she was brought from Africa to America. She scarce remembers, do you, Phillis?"

  My eyes sought his gratefully. "No," I said.

  "In your absence," Mrs. Wheatley told the reverends, "I shall endeavor to raise up funds to assist the families you leave behind. We must be mindful of their welfare."

  "And I shall be the first to contribute a token of my esteem to the security of your families," Mr. Lopez announced. He named an amount. Everyone gasped, then, not to be outdone, offered to contribute to the largesse. In no time at all I was forgotten.

  No sooner had Mrs. Wheatley announced that the ladies should retire to the parlor than Mr. Lopez came creeping toward me. "I would like to hear your poem," he said.

  "Phillis will be reciting later," Mrs. Wheatley said.

  The man wore yellow silk breeches and a turquoise frock coat, rings on his fingers. He smelled of lavender water.

  A dandy, I thought. A slave-trading dandy.

  He bowed ever so discreetly to my mistress, but he never took his eyes from me. "Could I not have a private recitation?"

  Mrs. Wheatley raised her eyes in dismay and nearly embraced Nathaniel as he approached. "Mr. Lopez wants a private recitation from Phillis. I hardly think, Nathaniel..." Her voice trailed off.

  "In view of Mr. Lopez's generosity to Reverends Occom and Whittaker, I don't see the difficulty. I'm sure Phillis wouldn't mind. We can step into the back parlor. What say you, Phillis?"

  "Nathaniel, may I speak with you? In private?"

  He sighed, sensing something. "Excuse us, Mr. Lopez. Our little poetess is having an attack of shyness."

  Mr. Lopez bowed and smiled. "Charming," he said, "but she needn't be shy in front of me."

  I had no notion to be charming. And it galled me, the way he looked at me with his beady eyes. I turned to him. "I'm not as much shy as I am distressed, sir," I told him. "I just realized earlier this evening that I lost my cowrie shell."

  His thin eyebrows raised. "Your cowrie shell?"

  "Yes. Surely you know what they are. The shell money of the slave trade."

  Nathaniel pushed me toward the parlor.

  "I was sold for seventy-two of them. But this one was especially important to me. It was given to me by my mother."

  Nathaniel was pulling me now. The door of the back parlor closed behind us. "What's happened to you? Explain yourself."

  "I thought Mr. Lopez would appreciate my loss, since he knows the true value of the shells."

  Clearly he was distraught. "That man is a guest in our house!"

  "He's a slave trader."

  "Are we to ask you now who we may invite to our table?"

  "He deals in human flesh, Nathaniel! He makes money from selling people. People like me!"

  "He is also rich as a nabob and has considerable influence in the merchant community."

  "Are you going to be his financial exchange agent? Is that why he's here?"

  "I am not accustomed to answering to you about my business dealings, Phillis. But this time I will make an exception. The answer is no."

  "Then why is he here?"

  "Because Mr. Joseph Rotch of New Bedford, Boston, and London, for whom I am going to be a financial exchange agent, asked that he be here. Is that sufficient?"

  "Yes, but I'll not recite for him."

  "Phillis, if you don't care about me, think of my parents."

  "They haven't asked me to do it. And I don't like the way he looks at me."

  "How does he look at you?"

  "Like ... I'm a piece of merchandise."

  Nathaniel smiled. "Well, I'm not selling you, Phillis. At least I wasn't planning on it. Until now."

  That he could joke nettled me even more. "I have a headache. I can't recite for him."

  "Oh, come now, Phillis! Don't give me that fashionable-white-girl fainting business. You're better than that."

  "If white girls can do it, so can I. I must go upstairs and rest. Or I won't be able to recite for the others later. And that would upset your parents." I started for the door.

  He stood in my path. "Don't run upstairs, if you know what's good for you."

  "And what is good for me. Pray?"

  He spoke quietly. "I know it's an unnecessary request. I know the man is pushy, bold, and hated by many. But if you don't humor him, he's likely to withdraw his goodwill from me and his gold shillings from the fund for the reverends' wives."

  "Does his goodwill mean so much to you, then?"

  "Mr. Rotch's does. And the money will mean much to the ministers' wives."

  I hesitated. "It isn't just the way he looks at me, Nathaniel. He acts as if I'm a thing, an oddment, like a bear brought here by a sea captain and displayed on a chain on the wharf. I can't abide it"

  "You had better learn to abide it." His voice gentled. "How much does your poetry mean to you?"

  "You have to ask that?"

  "Someone has to ask it of you. Think on it. My parents are speaking of getting it published."

  "Published?" My hand went to my heart. How like Nathaniel to spring something like this on me now. The thought took my breath away.

  "They are convinced, after reading your latest poem, that you are a genius. God help us."

  "But I've only written two in a year."

  "You will write more. And it takes time to publish. Mother wants to start working toward that end. Only they aren't sure yet if you can bear the responsibility. You will be expected to recite on demand, in front of all kinds of people who will likely look at you as an oddment. So you had best become accustomed to it. And I can think of no better way to start than with Mr. Lopez."

  From beyond the door there were voices, laughter, music. But between me and Nathaniel was a universe of cold silence.

  "What say you, Phillis? Do you have it in you to become the first published Negro poet in America?"

  He knew how to work on me, all right. "Oh, Nathaniel," I whispered, "what an honor."

  "Yes. But like every other honor, it has its price." He held his hand out. "You may hate Mr. Lopez. But see the virtue in reciting, Phillis. You do this for your people."

  I took his hand and went with him to recite for the slave trader.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The last guest was seen out the door. Nathaniel and Mary had left with their friends. Mrs. Wheatley hugged me. "Thank you for the new poem," she said. "And for giving Mr. Lopez, that dreadful man, a private recitation."

  "Phillis, we are going to try to get your poems published," her husband said.

  I pretended surprise. I hugged them both.

  "Wait a moment before you celebrate," Mr. Wheatley sai
d. Laboriously, he sat down on a nearby chair. I propped his foot on a stool, with a silk cushion under it. He had the gout and was in great pain.

  "Tell her, Mrs. Wheatley, what publication entails. It is not all punch and cookies."

  "Phillis does not expect life to be all punch and cookies, Mr. Wheatley," she returned. "Nevertheless, you are right. Come sit, Phillis, sit."

  I sat.

  She explained. "Getting one's poems published costs money. Oh, a printer might be persuaded, betimes, to absorb the costs, but usually that is only to print a goodly supply of broadsides that celebrate some important event. I am perfectly willing to bear the financial burden, dear."

  "Tell her the rest of it," her husband urged.

  My mistress took a deep breath. "Before we get a printer, we must expose you to the right people. In this case, the most influential lights of Boston. Governor Bernard should bear witness to a recitation of yours, of course. And," she went on placidly, "the lieutenant governor, Thomas Hutchinson; James Bowdoin; the Reverend Charles Chauncy; and other divines. John Hancock already heard you recite this evening. And was much taken with your talents."

  I could not speak. It was all too much.

  "Are you willing, Phillis?" Mr. Wheatley asked.

  They were looking at me, waiting. I looked back into each of their faces. They were getting old, I minded. The gold threads of her hair were near hidden by the white now. His face was getting heavier. Lines showed that had not been there before. Why had I not noticed until now? Their faces, so genteel, so aristocratic, so hopeful, had been anchors of kindness and love for me since I had first come here.

  My eyes filled with tears. "Yes," I said.

  What could be worse than reciting in front of Aaron Lopez? If I could abide him, I could abide anybody.

  Once more, Nathaniel had prepared me for what was to come. Once more, he had been right.

  For the next two weeks I went out every afternoon with Mrs. Wheatley to call upon some luminary in Boston. Prince drove us through Boston's streets in the ice and snow.

  Everyone in the family had given me something for the wardrobe in which I was to make my "appearances."

  Mr. Wheatley gave me a blue cloak trimmed with ermine. Mrs. Wheatley had two new gowns made for me.