by Ann Rinaldi
She took me inside. Here were sand and a mixture of wildflowers and weeds. In a corner were a blanket and an old chest. "I keep some books here," she said. "I come here to read your letters. Look."
She pointed. From a crack in the stone wall, you could see the Sound clear across to Block Island. "Do you have a private place?"
"No. Always I am in sight and sound of the Wheatleys."
"I could tell that. She would never let you talk to me, would she?"
I blushed. "They're good to me," I said.
She nodded knowingly. "Tell me about Boston."
"I've told you in all my letters. There are ten printers, eight booksellers, and many newspapers. All near our house."
"Tell me of the soldiers and the fighting."
"The soldiers have left. Driven out by the Patriots."
"They'll be back. The Patriots are spoiling for a fight. There will soon be one."
"How do you know?"
"I read the papers. I hear Mr. Tanner talking. And others who come to this house. This is Rhode Island. You think you people in Boston own the anger at the Crown? We have royal schooners patrolling our coast. A year ago the Sons of Liberty rowed out to a customs raider and burned and scuttled her in our waters. Merchants and tradesmen are angry. There is a spirit of rebellion here. Political meetings all over."
I listened, in awe. She knew things that mattered.
"We have the Free African Union Society here. Negros here are educated. Your own Prince belongs to it."
I gaped. "You know Prince?"
"Everyone in our society does. He and other Boston nigras are establishing a relief society for nigras who wish to take their freedom. He writes to us all the time."
"Prince? I didn't know he could write! Oh, Obour, I feel so humble of a sudden. Prince is doing something of worth for his fellowman. What have I ever done for anybody?"
"You can't do for others unless you do for yourself first," she said. "First you must get free."
"Prince isn't free."
"Says he's going to be when the fighting comes." She sighed. "I wonder how our race will fare when the war starts. We have a stake in it. Do they speak about drawing up your free papers?"
"No."
"My master has promised me freedom when I reach twenty-one. What about you? What's going to become of you when your master and mistress get old and die?"
"I haven't thought of it, Obour."
"You should. Are you laying aside for it?"
"Laying aside?"
"Money, silly. The king's shillings. Don't you get paid when a poem gets published?"
"No. Mrs. Wheatley has to bear the expense of publishing it."
She sighed. "So you're even more in her debt, then."
"I don't think on it that way, Obour."
"How do you think on it, then?"
"Someday soon I'm going to have a book of poems published. The first Negro in America ever to do so! And I'm going to London. With Nathaniel."
"This is all good," she said quietly, "but only because they allow it. By their leave you do these things. They're playing with you, Phillis. They're making something out of you that you can never be. A Negro woman poet."
"Why can't I? It's what I am."
"By their leave," she said again. "What will you do when they tire of you? You'll be cast aside. No woman gets published in America. Especially not a Negro woman."
"Nathaniel would never let me be cast aside."
"Tell me about this Nathaniel who won't let them cast you aside. You're besotted with him, aren't you?"
We were sitting on the blanket inside her tower. When I didn't answer, she smiled.
"I thought so. In all your letters, it was 'Nathaniel this' and 'Nathaniel that.' To what aim is this love of yours? He's the master's son, Phillis. No good can come of it."
"I don't expect anything to come of it, Obour. Good or otherwise."
"But you still love him."
"I can't help diat. If not for Nathaniel I wouldn't have learned to read. I wouldn't have started writing."
"I read and write. And no Nathaniel brought me to it."
"You don't understand, Obour."
"You haven't let him play free with you, have you?"
"Don't be silly. He isn't even sensible of my feelings. And he's a man of honor."
"Honor, is it?"
"Yes." I met her gaze. "Please don't worry about me on that score, Obour. I will die before I ever let him know I harbor such feelings. And as for Mrs. Wheatley, she is doing so much for me. They love me. I'm like a daughter to them."
Silence inside the old stone walls. A seagull cried somewhere. It was getting on to dusk.
She stood up. She pulled me to my feet and put her arms around me. "I'm happy," she said, "and you have it in you to do much for our people. But hear me now, won't you?"
I nodded.
"When we were on the ship and your mother was thrown overboard and you were sick, you wanted to die. I told you you must live. You said there was no reason."
"Yes."
"Then you rallied and ate. Do you recollect why?"
"Because you told me Captain Quinn would kill you if I died. I couldn't abide that."
She smiled. "I lied."
I drew back. "You jest."
"Captain Quinn never said such. I lied to give you a reason. Was I right? Isn't there good reason to live?"
Tears came to my eyes. "Yes."
"And I'm right now, too. There is a reason to be free. Think on it. Promise."
I hugged her. "I promise," I said.
Chapter Twenty-four
JANUARY 1771
"For a Scotsman, you surprise me, Mr. Mein," my master said.
The bald-headed John Mein, notorious publisher of the Boston Chronicle, was not offended. He turned from his great cherry desk in his office on King Street. "How so?"
"You had the courage to publish the names of those who were violating their own nonimportation agreement and importing from the British, yet you won't bring out a volume of poems by a Negro girl."
"I'm stupid," Mein said, "not crazy. And every time I feel another attack of courage coming on, I mind the pain in my shoulder for being beaten by the Liberty Boys. That's what publishing those names got me."
"I don't think you need fear the Liberty Boys if you bring out a book of Phillis's poetry."
"I fear my subscribers. I need three hundred signatures to bring such a book out. My subscribers will not agree that the poems were written by a Negro girl."
Silence in Mr. Mein's office, except for the sound of snow falling against the multipaned windows. It was the end of January. Mary had been married two weeks ago and, as he had promised, Mr. Wheatley had visited every publisher and printer in Boston, with me in tow, to try to convince them to bring out my first book of poetry.
At every place we stopped, the answer was the same.
No.
Their subscribers would not believe the poems were written by a Negro girl.
The Boston Chronicle was the last stop on our list.
"This is America," my master said. "Why are these Patriot publishers so fired up about things if they fear bringing out a book of poems by a Negro girl?"
"Don't ask me, I'm a Tory," Mein said, "and proud of it." He sipped his tea and gestured that we should partake of ours. "I thought your Captain Calef was engaging a London printer?"
"He did. Our merchantman dropped anchor only yesterday. Calef engaged one Archibald Bell. He's a little-known printer of religious works in London."
"Then you don't need me," Mein said.
"Bell sent word he will bring out the book only if we have some kind of written verification that Phillis wrote the poems," my master told him.
"In heaven's name, man, get the verification and go with a London publisher," Mein advised. "These are bad times in America."
He turned to me. His gaze narrowed on me like that of a hawk on a field mouse. "Did you write those poems, girl?"
&nb
sp; I started in my chair. "Yes, sir," I said.
"You aren't lying? With all the talent of your race?"
"One moment, Mein!" Mr. Wheatley leaned forward.
Mr. Mein held up his hand. "Let her reply, John."
I saw a look pass between them. Then Mr. Wheatley sat back.
"I wrote them," I said. "You never doubted it when you published my elegy on Reverend Whitefield."
"It was published first elsewhere. Philadelphia, New York, Newport. I thought it only proper it be published here in Boston. Where you claim to have written it."
"I claim nothing, Mr. Mein. I did write it."
"Why should anyone believe you?"
"I don't lie, sir."
"Like Crispus Attacks, the mulatto killed in the massacre? Came into town claiming to be a crewman off a Nantucket whaler. When, in fact, he was brought here as an outside agitator and did more rioting than any man in Boston."
I felt anger pounding in my veins. "Attacks is a martyr," I said. "He's dead. You should let the dead rest in peace."
"There's a martyr on every street corner in Boston these days, willing to die for what he believes in. Every time I bring out another issue of the Chronicle, I'm a martyr. But I have no fancy to be tarred and feathered or have my presses destroyed for bringing out the poems of a little nigra girl. Especially one who is such a saucy little piece."
He sat back, spent by the speechifying. And pleased that he had given me my comeuppance.
"I've no intention to be rude, sir, but you did push me. And you hurt me grievous much."
"You listen to me, girl." He shook his finger at me. "How do you think you're going to get this written verification that you wrote the poems?"
"I don't know, I'm sure."
"Well, I'll tell you, then. You'll have to appear before some kind of examining body. And be questioned about this poetry of yours. And if you think what I just said hurt you grievous much, wait until you hear what they will say to you!"
He took up his teacup, drank, and smacked his lips.
I was trembling. I looked at my master.
His face was white, and from the way he was leaning forward, favoring one leg, I knew his gout was giving him trouble.
"I'm sorry, John," Mr. Mein said. "But you should tell your little protégée that when she does appear before this examining body, she should mind her tongue. And affect some Christian humility. Artists need humility, John. Their gifts are too great. They encourage envy."
My master nodded and stood. The meeting was over. They shook hands, and Mr. Wheatley helped me into my cloak and guided me outside to our carriage.
"Don't pay mind to him, Phillis," Mr. Wheatley said inside the carriage. "He's gone a little daft. He's turning his newspaper into a Tory propaganda sheet. The Patriots will soon run him out of town, you'll see."
"He was right, wasn't he, sir? About what I must expect from an examining body?"
He cleared his throat. "If he was right about anything, Phillis, it was about your gift being great." He patted my hand. "Your poetry will be published. Don't worry."
Chapter Twenty-five
MAY 1772
And so I come to sit in the garden of the governor's mansion, waiting to appear before the esteemed gentlemen who will decide if my poetry is, indeed, mine.
As I wait, I know I can do it. They may be the leading lights in Boston, these men, but I know I have the mettle to stand before them.
Until I think of what Mr. Mein said to me.
If you think what I just said hurt you grievous much, wait until you hear what they will say to you.
I trembled, waiting. The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Then I heard footsteps on the brick walk and turned to see Mr. Hancock approaching.
"Well, Phillis?" he asked, smiling down at me. "What have you decided?"
"I shall do it, sir," I said. "I am ready."
***
"Phillis, you know some of these people," Nathaniel said.
As I walked into the vast enchoing chamber, they all stood. Eighteen of them sitting before a long polished table, sipping tea. Dressed in silk breeches, some of them, wearing wigs. Others in the plain broadcloth of the ministry.
"Yes, sir." I curtsied.
Nathaniel said the names. And each man gave a little bow.
"Gentlemen, let's not keep Phillis waiting," Mr. Hancock said. "Phillis, you may sit if you wish."
I was given a chair. But I stood.
Reverend Cooper stood up. "Are you a Christian, Phillis?"
"Yes, Reverend. You were in attendance at my baptism. You recollect, don't you? It was done hastily, after services. Because I am nigra."
The good reverend blushed. So did some others. Not Nathaniel, though. He scowled at me.
I supposed I was being what Mr. Mein would call a "saucy little piece."
"Of course, I was just as glad it was done then, Reverend," I amended, "being as you wouldn't have been able to come if it had been done sooner. Since your own services at Brattle Street Church wouldn't have been over yet."
He nodded and sat back down.
Reverend Mather Byles was next. "You claim to know the classics, do you not?"
Well, now, never did I hear such tomfoolery! And from Reverend Byles! Who had so often been a guest in our home and who had, on several occasions, tutored me in the classics. I was about to ask him if he had taken leave of his senses when I again caught Nathaniel's eye.
"Yes, Reverend Byles," I answered demurely. "I have studied the classics."
"Who wrote the Iliad?" he asked.
"Homer."
He sat down, satisfied.
"Who is Terence?" And none other than Andrew Oliver, the lieutenant governor, stood now.
I had felt to this moment as if I could not breathe. Now, of course, I could. Very easily. Surely he knew who Terence was. These esteemed gentlemen, these foremost lights of Boston, were playing some kind of game here.
Very well, then, I would play along with them.
"Terence was a Roman author of comedies," I replied. "An African by birth, he had long been a slave. But he was freed by the fruits of his pen."
"Do you wish to be free, Phillis?" Governor Hutchinson himself questioned me now.
I drew in my breath. Every face in the room was turned on me. My head buzzed. I looked at Hutchinson. I had been to his house. He had slaves. Likely so did all the others. Except Councilman Harrison Gray, who was what they called an abolitionist. He did not believe in slavery.
Again I glanced at Nathaniel. He seemed to be holding his breath. His face was about to turn blue.
"I would aspire to be free, yes," I said softly. "God has implanted the principle of freedom in every human breast. I have an abiding interest in freedom. But I should willingly submit to servitude to be free in Christ."
I could tell that Nathaniel was breathing again.
The men all looked at each other. There were murmurings and whisperings.
John Hancock stood. "Who is Phoebus, Phillis?"
"The Greek god of the sun. He is often called Phoebus Apollo."
"Why is it that you make such frequent references to him in your poetry?"
"Sir?"
"You make much of the sun, Phillis," Hancock said. "Why?"
Again I hesitated. Across the room, Nathaniel nodded.
"Because one memory I have of my mother is of her pouring water out of a stone jar, every morning, before the sun at its rising," I told them.
Silence. Several heads nodded.
Would they ask me now about my mother? My past? What would I do?
They did not. Reverend Moorhead stood up. "Who is your favorite poet, Phillis?" he asked in his Scotch accent.
"Alexander Pope," I said.
"Ah, yes, Pope." He shuffled some papers. "Dinna you not write a poem called 'To Maecenas'?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who is this Maecenas?"
Moorhead, you old Presbyterian, you well know, I thought. But I answered properlike. "A
Roman statesman and patron of the arts who helped Horace and Virgil."
"Even as you have been helped, Phillis?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who, then, is your Maecenas? Canna you tell us, Phillis? For whom did you write this poem, lass?"
My mouth went dry. "If you ask who helped me, sir, there are many. From my mistress and master, who have been naught but kindness itself to me since the day I was brought here, to the Reverends Byles and Cooper, who, when they came to visit, counseled and advised me. And Master Nathaniel, of course, who first taught me to read."
"Is he your Maecenas, then? Canna you tell us?"
No, I canna, I minded. For I had written the poem to Nathaniel. But neither he nor they would ever know. I would take my secret to the grave with me. "Sir, my Maecenas is likely made up of bits and pieces of all these people."
Reverend Ebenezer Pemberton stood up. He was very fat and the effort of getting out of the chair caused considerable difficulty. His breath was spent. Thus he had earned the nickname Puffing Pem.
"In one of your poems, Phillis, you speak of certain people as being 'the offspring of six thousand years.' What mean you by that?"
I sighed. This is all too easy, surely, I minded. "James Ussher, archbishop of Armagh, born in 1581, figured from what he studied in the Bible, sir, that God created the world in 4004 B.C. That would be six thousand years before this year of 1772."
Puffing Pem smiled and sat down.
Now there were more murmurings, more whispers. Then they seemed to arrive at a decision.
It was John Hancock who stood to say that the meeting was over, and would I be pleased to wait outside in the hall?
I sat alone on the bench in the great hall, staring down at the marble floor, shivering. I admired the rich wallpaper above the wainscoting. I wondered who the expensively clad gentlemen and ladies were staring down at me from gold-framed paintings. Whoever they are, they must be dead, I decided.
They all looked like I felt. Lifeless.
I would have given anything for a hot cup of tea. A clock chimed somewhere in the great house. Then in a while it chimed again.
The door of the chamber opened. John Hancock came out.
"Phillis," he said, "you have done well. They are of a mind that the poetry is, indeed, yours."