Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons

by Ann Rinaldi

  I stood alone in the room, clutching the paper against me. I was free!

  Why did I feel no joy? Why did I only feel pain? Still, I must tell someone. I ran into the kitchen.

  "I'm free," I told Sulie. "The master freed me." I showed her the paper.

  She was turning a roast on the spit. She glanced at the paper. "Well, now, so what do it do for you?"

  "I'm free," I said.

  She laughed. "Tha's nice. You is still black as me. Ain't gonna make no difference. But you always was one for fancy notions. You'll learn someday. Inna meantime, if it ain't too much to ask, could you get some taters from the larder? We still gots to eat."

  She was right, though I'd die before I told her.

  Free made no difference in my life. Nothing changed. No one took note of it. Mr. Wheatley registered my free papers with the General Court. All that meant was that he had to give fifty pounds to the town treasurer to ensure I would not become a public charge.

  My life went on much the same except for the excitement over the arrival of the tea ships in late November. Mr. Wheatley was not one of the consignees and he was beset by that. To mollify himself he joined the citizens' night watch, which served to guard the tea ships so that the tea wouldn't be unloaded. It also served to beset his wife.

  Her health was no better. But for an hour each day I got her out of bed and sat her in front of the fire in her room.

  "An old man," she fretted one day, just as I'd gotten her settled in her chair, "out there in the cold. Has my husband gone daft?"

  "He must do something," I told her. "He wants to still be part of the merchant community. It makes him feel useful."

  She allowed that I was right.

  I did not tell her the citizens were now armed. And that post riders had spread word to neighboring towns that the tea must not be landed.

  My concern was that we would no longer be able to get tea. And she loved her Bohea tea. It seemed to restore her. What would I do? Our supply was dwindling fast.

  In mid-December, when the wind howled around the house and the darkness descended early, the Patriots in Boston did their work. Hundreds of them disguised as Indians boarded the tea ships at Griffin's Wharf under cover of darkness and threw crates of tea into Boston Harbor.

  Some held that it was a foolish move. Others celebrated. I didn't know what to think. The common folk were making themselves heard again. But to what end? What would be the profit?

  I'm common folk. What's the profit in my freedom? Nothing has changed. I am still skinny and black. Sulie still mocks me, has more to say about how things are done around here than I do, and never lets me forget it. I cannot make my mistress well.

  Yes, my book came out in London. But did Nathaniel write and say he was proud of me? No. Mr. Bell wrote. All about how my friends were having parties to celebrate. But this was not London. Here people scarce took note. All they could talk of was the fool tea.

  I knew what my friends in London would say about that. What harm would it do to pay the threepence a pound tax on the tea? they would say. It is cheap enough. Parliament has reduced the price from twenty shillings a pound to ten. You Americans don't know how precious good we're being to you.

  As far as I could see, the only thing to come from this tea party was that we would no longer have tea.

  I made our supply last as long as I could. Mr. Wheatley preferred chocolate. And I drank it, too. But Sulie had an inordinate fondness for tea, so I hid our last tin from her.

  Sulie had an inordinate fondness for many things, I minded. She sent Bristol to the North End Market every day. And if he did not bring back the best cut of meat, the fanciest imported chocolate, she sent him back again. It seemed they were always asking the master for money and complaining about prices. Several times when I came upon them at their evening meal, I was taken with the lavishness of their board.

  Well, I had enough to mind with the tea. I made our supply last until the beginning of January.

  Then two things happened.

  Three hundred copies of my book were shipped to me from London. And that nice John Peters, the greengrocer who had the stall at North End Market, came knocking at our door.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  JANUARY 1774

  The day was bitter cold. Snow was falling. I was returning from the office of the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. They were going to publish my poem on the death of the Reverend John Moorhead, Scipio's master. I had taken up my poetry writing again, though I had not much time for it.

  "What's this?" Sulie stood in the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at the crate.

  In the middle of the floor was a large wooden crate. It was addressed to me. I threw off my cloak. "It's my books! Arrived from London."

  "Well, get 'em outa my kitchen. Now."

  "I can't move the crate. Where's Bristol?"

  "He's got better things to do. Master's got friends comin' for supper. An' I got enuf to do without worryin' 'bout trippin' over that box. Move 'em or I'll set 'em out in the snow myself."

  At that moment the door knocker sounded. I opened it. A nigra man stood there, grinning at me. He had the whitest teeth I had ever seen. And his eyes were kind. I wasn't above noticing the broadness of his shoulders, either.

  "Yes?" I asked.

  "You Phillis Wheatley?"

  "I am."

  He pulled off his hat. "I'm John Peters," he said. And he handed me a package.

  I took it and invited him in. Gingerly he stepped over the threshold. "I couldn't help hearing"—and he gave Sulie a quizzical glance—"I'll move the crate if you like. Just tell me where to put it"

  "Oh, I couldn't prevail on you," I said.

  Sulie laughed. "Prevail on him. Just get it outa here. Hello, John. You ain't never delivered any groceries for me."

  "Hello, Sulie. This is different."

  "Why?"

  "Cary May sent me."

  Sulie hmphed.

  Peters gave me a little bow. "I'm honored," he said, picking up the crate, "just to be handling the books of the famous Phillis Wheatley."

  For a moment I stared. Then I came to life. "Bring them right in here," I said. And I led him into the back parlor.

  He set the books down, then took a knife from his pocket and pried open the crate.

  There they were. My books. My name on them. Handsomely bound.

  John Peters picked one up, opened it. "Your likeness," he said.

  "Yes."

  He stood up, book in hand, and walked over to the window for more light. He read. Then he looked at me. "You know what they call you in the street?"

  "No."

  "The little Ethiopian poetess."

  "I didn't mind that they called me anything."

  "Oh yes. We should celebrate."

  "'We'?"

  He smiled and there were those even white teeth again. And that gleam in his eye. At once familiar and sassy. His hair was short and kinky. His face was round and strong. "You got someone else to celebrate with?"

  "No."

  "I feel as if I know you. I do know you. Heard enough about you from Cary May."

  "You're the one who gave her the fresh oranges for Aunt Cumsee."

  "Yes, and she sent me with the package."

  "Oh! The package! I forgot. How rude of me." I set down my book and grabbed up the package, opened it, and exclaimed, "Tea! Oh, tea." I opened the lid and sniffed. "Good Bohea. Oh, thank you. My mistress will love it. But where did you get it?" I was babbling and he knew it. He was watching me with a warm gaze, taking my measure.

  "I have my connections. And I can get more for your mistress. Also"—he lowered his voice and crossed the room to close the door—"you should tell Mr. Wheatley to have the groceries delivered directly to the house. And let you pay for them."

  I did not take his meaning. "Why?"

  He gestured his head toward the door. "She's cheating him."

  "How do you know?"

  "It's my business to know."

>   "But who would deliver them?" I asked.

  He grinned. "Me."

  "Will your master permit it?"

  "I've got no master, Miss Ethiopian poetess," he said. "I'm free."

  And so it was that that nice John Peters came to our house three times a week with the groceries. And Mr. Wheatley, on hearing my reasoning, gave me the responsibility of ordering them and paying.

  Sulie rebelled, of course. But there was naught she could do. Mr. Wheatley might be old and addled, but he could conjure up his old firmness when the occasion warranted.

  John came of an evening, after he closed his stall. One cold night in February when he delivered our vittles, I was distracted. I spilled hot cider while pouring some for him in the kitchen. I overpaid him.

  "Things weigh heavy on your mind," he said as he put two shillings back in my palm.

  I flushed. "My mistress is getting worse. And then there are the books. I must sell them myself, if I am to make a living. And I don't know how."

  "Then why not ask someone who does?"

  "You?"

  "I sell things all the time."

  "Books aren't sides of bacon."

  "It's the same thing. You have a product the public wants, you must get the product out where the public sees it."

  I was less than enamored, having him compare my books to three hundred sides of bacon, but I listened.

  "I know Mr. Cox of Cox and Berry. Likely he'll take ten volumes. What do they sell for?"

  "Mr. Bell sold them for two shillings in London."

  "Ask three shillings fourpence."

  My eyes went wide. "That much?"

  "You'll get it. People have money to spend now. Wait for the war and they won't."

  "What war?"

  There was that insolent grin again. "The war that Sam Adams and the rest of the Sons are pushing for. Where you been keeping yourself, Miss Ethiopian poetess? Don't you know what's going on out there? The Crown is angered about the tea. There's talk Boston has to pay for it. You think they will? I heard there's five hundred barrels of gunpowder stored in Boston and Charlestown right now."

  "Talk," I said. "There will be no war."

  "The House of Representatives is going to impeach Chief Justice Peter Oliver for high crimes and misdemeanors against the people of Massachusetts Bay."

  . "You know a grievous lot for a grocer."

  "People talk when they buy; I listen. Some of them work in the houses of important men. What plans do you have for the rest of your books?"

  "None."

  "What friends do you have outside of Boston?"

  I thought for a moment. "Obour Tanner in Newport."

  He pondered. "There are about twelve nigras who can read in that town. Anybody else?"

  "Reverend Occom in New London, Connecticut And Reverend Sam Hopkins in Princeton, New Jersey. But he hates poetry."

  "Isn't he the one who's raising funds to educate two African slaves?"

  "Yes."

  "Write to him. He is soon going to develop an inordinate fondness for poetry."

  "How so?"

  "He needs your name."

  "My name?"

  "Yes"—and he grinned again. "You were a slave. Look what you accomplished with some education. Write to him."

  "You playin' wif fire, cozyin' up to him."

  I turned from the back door, having just let John out.

  Sulie stood there in the shadows. I felt a shiver. And it was not from the cold draft of February air the door had let in. "If you have anything to say, Sulie, say it plain."

  "I gots nuthin' to say to you. You wouldn't listen anyways, Miss Fancy."

  "Say it! Or keep a silent tongue in your head."

  She poured herself some cider. "All right I'll say it He's a ne'er-do-well. A bounder."

  "How dare you?"

  "Full of charm. Especially wif the women. But there's nuthin' behind it."

  "He's hardworking. And he has intelligence."

  She sipped her cider. She drained the mug dry, then set it down and sashayed away. "Knew you wouldn't listen. Only warnin' you, though doan know why I should. You'll learn."

  Then she was gone. I stood in the empty kitchen. The fire flickered low on the hearth. She's jealous because John has such charm, I thought. And Bristol is so morose. And she's still angry because we found out she was cheating Mr. Wheatley.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  MARCH 1774

  Aunt Cumsee died the last week in February, and my mistress on the third of March.

  Two women, one nigra and one white, whose voices were part of me, whose hands had comforted, soothed, and taught. One a pine-knot torch and the other a scented beeswax candle against the darkness of my ignorance and fear. Both gone.

  Where? I believed in Aunt Cumsee's Jesus and in Mrs. Wheatley's God of Deliverance, but I was hard put to say how either one of these ladies was now occupying her time. Unless Jesus had a side of mutton that needed turning on the spit. And God had any little nigra girls running around who must be taken in hand.

  How could people be here one moment and gone the next?

  I was not there when Aunt Cumsee died, but I was notified the next morning. I was at the bedside of my mistress. Mary and Nathaniel were not. Mary was in childbed. Mr. Wheatley was in attendance but of no earthly use. The poor man was so addled he had all he could do to pace and wring his hands.

  It was me, her little nigra slave girl, she wanted.

  I knelt beside her.

  "You must make me a promise."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You must write no elegy for me, no poem."

  "Oh, ma'am. How can I not? I am known for my elegies. To not write one for you, the woman who gave me so much!"

  "Christian humility dictates that I forbid it. The Author of all good works knows what I have done. Do you think you can best Him at saying it?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Another thing." She paused, resting. "That letter you wrote to Reverend Occom."

  "What letter, ma'am?"

  "Silly girl, did you think you could keep it a secret from me? The one on freedom. And the hypocrisy of Christian slaveholders. He wrote to me of it and how he wants to get it published. But you said no, until after my death."

  "Ma'am, I didn't wish to disgrace you."

  "Do you think so little of me, then?"

  "Oh no."

  She smiled weakly. "Well, you may publish it now. I wish you to. Do it with my blessing."

  She died that night, with her eyes fully open and her hands reaching outward. "Come, come quickly!" she shouted. "Oh, I pray for an easy and quick passage."

  There was a parade of mourners at her funeral. Boston prides itself on gala funerals.

  Mr. Wheatley did not go.

  Before we were to leave, I found him gazing out the window of the front parlor. "Sir, I have your heavy coat. The sun is warm but the wind is brisk."

  He turned and eyed me quizzically. "Is there to be another riot, then? There is a crowd outside. Are the Liberty Boys gathering? Has the news arrived from England how they will punish us for the tea?"

  Dear God, I thought, he has taken refuge in idiocy. He'd been doing a lot of that of late. Times his mind was sharp as a saber. Other times he could not remember your name.

  I sat him down in his favorite chair. "You wait here, sir. Your friends will wish to know where to find you." I fetched his paper and called to Sulie to bring him a pot of chocolate.

  "You're a good girl, Phillis. Where are you off to?"

  "I've an errand to run. I'll be back shortly. I'll send Bristol with another log for the fire."

  All I could think of, as I wound along Boston's cold streets with the procession of mourners, was the day so long ago when the skinny little nigra girl, crawling with vermin and wrapped in a scrap of rug, was carried into the Wheatley mansion by Prince to meet the fair-haired goddess of a lady in her gray gown with rose fluff on it.

  All I could think of was her eyes. And how they loo
ked like she was just about to tell me something wonderful. And how I'd wondered what it was.

  So long ago now, I thought, with a pang of sadness for Nathaniel and his boyish kindness. For Mary and her girlhood giddiness—Mary, now a married woman, so worn down from bearing child after child that she could not even be here today. I thought of Mr. Wheatley's quiet power and dignity, now ground down to muddleheaded confusion.

  White folk don't have it any easier than we do, I minded. They just think so. We all die in the end. That of itself is not so grievous to me. It's what comes before we die that gives me the quivers and quakes.

  Nigras know what comes. White folk never do. It always takes them by surprise.

  So, then, why is it I am fear quickened of a sudden? Because inside I've become white. They've treated me white. I've trusted their soft words. I've been coddled by everyone.

  Except Nathaniel. Nathaniel knew. He always knew I was still nigra, would always be nigra. Aunt Cumsee knew, too. So did Obour. But I fought them all.

  So here I am now, come to a pretty pass—white on the inside, where nobody can see it, and nigra on the outside, where it's all anybody sees. Free, yes. Oh, I'm free all right. But all that means is that I must now earn my own bread.

  A melancholy took hold of me as we passed through the gates of the Old Granary Burial Place on Tremont Street. Mary's husband, Reverend Lathrop, was saying prayers.

  I looked into the yawning grave and was frightened. My mistress and only protector is gone. What will happen to me now? Mr. Wheatley is half daft. War is coming. There is no telling what the British will do to punish Boston for the tea. I have three hundred more books coming in May and I must sell them in order to live.

  Who will buy them? Who will care about the poems of a little nigra girl if there is war?

  The sun, which had been milky weak, disappeared behind a cloud. A gust of wind blew some old leaves around. I'm one of those leaves, I thought, discarded, of no more use to anyone.

  Reverend Lathrop finished his prayers. We turned to leave.

  Then the sun came out again. Or was it just the fact of John Peters standing there waiting for me at the cemetery gate?